#darkfic ocs

[whimsyvixen]

𝕊𝕚𝕝𝕖𝕟𝕔𝕖 𝕌𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣𝕟𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕙 ~ 𝟙/?

Stalker Fic (original work)

Rating: 18+ Pairing: Female Reader x Male Yandere Synopsis/Excerpt:   It felt like someone was looking at you. A predator looking at a fawn. Waiting for the right moment to sink its powerful jaws into its frail neck, and tear it apart. WARNINGS/TAGS: Dark fic, rape/noncon elements, extremely dubious consent, stalking, yandere, unhealthy relationships, obsessive behavior, masturbation, captivity, non-consensual bondage, dacryphilia, forced breeding, forced orgasm, vaginal sex, fuck or die, tags will grow as this story progresses. ⚠️READ THE TAGS: Please be aware this work contains content that the reader may feel uncomfortable with or otherwise triggered by. DO NOT READ if bothered by tags . NO minors. ⚠️

A/N: Wooo! so I finally decided to make story for this post I made awhile back (a thousand thank you's to everyone who liked and commented <3 ). Please read up on the tags, so you know what to expect in the coming chapters. Happy reading!

-Dividers by @adornedwithlight-

It was raining outside, the distant thunder and pitter patter of raindrops hitting the window creating a lullaby that was lulling you to sleep. Combined with the soft rumbling of the bus, you could feel your body’s desperate need for rest after a grueling shift at work. 

Familiar streets and roads were tracked by your eyes, the expected relief of almost getting home brightening up your mood despite the gloomy weather. You estimated that you'll reach your destination in less than half an hour, rummaging through your purse to take out your phone to set up a timer in case sleep overtakes you and you miss your stop. 

Pressing the lever of your seat to recline, you got comfortable and laid your cardigan over your chest, finally giving in to the urge of closing your eyes. Seconds ticked by and all you could think about was how you couldn't wait to be in the comfort of the soft bedding on your mattress. Your muscles were practically begging for relief and you had enough pillows and blankets waiting for you back home to alleviate this problem. 

It couldn't have been more than a few minutes that passed– your mind completely disassociating from reality while you snoozed– when your peace was shattered. A shiver of unease ran through you, waking up your consciousness abruptly and causing you to jolt awake. 

The same feeling that’s been haunting you for weeks now was back.

The hairs on the back of your neck stood and your heart rate picked up.

It hadn’t always been like this. You could still remember a time when you climbed inside the vehicle without your gut twisting anxiously. At first, you chalked it up to it being caused by some low level of anxiety you were experiencing or lack of restful sleep. Something that could be easily remedied by swallowing a pill stashed inside a drawer back home.

However, as of late, a feeling of wariness and fear seemed to consume you, your fight or flight response triggered whenever you climbed up the stairs of the bus, each step weighing heavy on your legs as you went to take your seat.

It felt like someone was looking at you. 

A predator looking at a fawn.

Waiting for the right moment to sink its powerful jaws into its frail neck, and tear it apart.

The paranoia getting to you, you turned your head to the right, swallowing down your nervousness as you tried to find the source of your panic. 

There was a man seated in the opposite seats across from you. His stretched out and bulky frame took up much of the space, the black cap on his head and the mask he wore obscuring his features and giving him a mysterious vibe. The turtleneck shirt clung to him, emphasizing the broad muscles of his upper body even in his relaxed state. His back was to the window, his left leg bent in a careless fashion along both seats, facing you directly as he was browsing through his phone. 

At least, you thought that's what he was doing. You didn't want to believe that the man was taking unwanted pictures or videos of you while you slept. 

You didn't realize you were staring for too long, the stranger’s attention shifting away from his phone when he could feel your gaze, freezing you in place as your eyes connected with those dark depths. For some reason, you couldn’t look away, too afraid to blink as a chill took over you from being under the perusal of those piercing eyes. There was something wrong, you just couldn’t explain it. He tilted his head to the side, regarding your stunned state for a moment before his eyes crinkled with amusement. He waved good naturedly at you, a normal gesture of greeting that you would've returned if not for the twisting of your gut that warned you against doing such a thing. 

When you didn’t return his gesture, the stranger’s eyebrows furrowed in dejection, bringing his hand down to lay against his lap almost disappointedly. 

A good few seconds passed with both unwilling to look away from each other. 

Your eyes, firm and guarded while his were inquisitive and curious.

As if finally sensing your unease, the stranger backed off by turning to sit properly in his seat and shifting his focus back to his phone. 

Letting out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding, you grabbed your purse and whipped out your phone, your shaky hands nearly dropping it when you first grabbed it. Turning the screen on, you realized you had taken a ten minute nap with seconds to spare from your alarm ringing. You were mere minutes away from arriving at your stop.

Taking a quick glance at the stranger once more, you tried to rid your paranoid thoughts that he was the reason for your being on edge these past few weeks. It couldn’t be, you tried reasoning to yourself. If anything, you were in the wrong for staring at him funny when you’ve never seen him before. Maybe this was his first ride on the bus and you made his experience weird because you kept looking at him as if accusing him of something heinous. Maybe he was just trying to be friendly and not spook you when you caught each other’s eye by accident. Maybe your groggy mind was making things up about a complete stranger. 

Could the stress of work and your responsibilities piling up for the past few months be messing with your awareness? There was nothing special about you. You weren’t an important person. There was nothing, no gifted ability or priviledge, that separated you from the throngs of people you saw every day while heading to work. Why would someone want you with your bleak existence and no future aspirations?

Your anxiousness and worry slowly left you when you drew those conclusions about yourself, replaced with self pity as you realized you really had nothing going for your life. The somber expression staring back at you through your phone’s black screen only dimming your mood further. 

It was a while before the bus slowed to a stop, the driver’s familiar voice announcing your destination and making you stand to walk to the front. Not paying attention to your footing, you tripped over your own feet and felt gravity pull you under. A small yip tumbled out of your lips, feeling pain on your left elbow from the hard impact on the floor. Your purse went flying in a comical fashion, your disoriented mind not sure in which direction it landed or if anything fell out of it. 

Embarrassment quickly flooded you, feeling the eyes of other passengers stare at you and hearing a few snickers amongst them. Wincing from the blossoming pain in your arm, you had barely braced your hands on the floor ready to stand up, when you felt warm hands encircle your waist.

“Here,” a deep voice whispered against your ear. “Let me help you, sweetheart.”

You were lifted from the floor easily, your weight meaning nothing to the man as he held you gently until you got your bearings straight. You looked up at him, having to crane your neck upwards due to his tall height and seeing it was the masked stranger.

“I, uhm.. Thank you,” you stuttered over your words, a flush of heat blooming in your face at his proximity. You wanted to kick yourself for how high pitched your voice sounded, unable to maintain eye contact with him when he gazed so intently back at you. If you dared to say, it felt like he was trying to memorize every small detail about your face– birthmarks, the slope of your nose, shape of your lips, the emotion in your eyes. Realizing that you still held on to his arms wrapped around your waist, you nervously laughed before going to break yourself away from the intimate embrace. 

“I’m okay now, you can let go,” you assured him, the fake smile plastered on your face concealing your tense disposition from his closeness. 

You chose to ignore the way his fingers dug momentarily into your waist, gripping you a little too tight to be normal before he loosened his grasp, allowing you to generate a more respectable distance between you and him. Seeing your startled reaction to his handling of you, the stranger immediately apologized for his actions.

“You’ll have to forgive me for my forwardness.” He told you, imploring you with his eyes that he meant no harm. He bent down to pick up something on the floor, his other hand holding up the strap of your purse for you to take it. “I only wanted to make sure you wouldn’t trip over yourself again.”

“Oh! I-It’s ok really, I-,” your words were interrupted by the harsh voice of the driver telling you to hurry to the front if you planned to get out. You quickly snatched your purse back, ignoring the little jolt of electricity that zipped through you when you grazed his fingers. “Um, I have to go but thank you, again! Bye!” 

You turned to walk briskly down the steps of the bus, thanking the bus driver for his patience and stepping out into the familiar streets of your neighborhood. Luckily for you, the rain had slowed to a soft drizzle, an umbrella not needed for the small trek you took to arrive at the apartment where you’ve been renting for the past year. 

Locking the door behind you, you sighed audibly before throwing your purse at the chair nearest you. You walked over to your room, kicking off your shoes to land haphazardly along the floor because you were too tired to bother putting them away. Removing your damp clothing, you grabbed a towel and some night clothes to head to the shower.

Relaxing under the spray of lukewarm water, you found your mind straying to the stranger in the bus. 

Who was he? 

You weren’t lying that you had never seen him before. A man of his formidable size would have been easy to spot, sticking out from the rest of the passengers like a sore thumb. He was dressed peculiarly too, his attire giving off the impression that he values secrecy and privacy. And his voice! Goodness, you could feel yourself nearly melt remembering the richness of it. The way he held you like a dainty object didn’t escape your notice either, your cheeks aflame at how good his hands felt around your waist. The feminine thrill that his presence ignited was hard to subdue, unbidden thoughts of his hands squeezing and trailing over your naked body filling your mind.

Would his hands be soft and gentle? Or would they be strong and rough? 

As if your hands had a mind of their own, they moved up your body to cup your breasts making you gasp at the contact. You looked down at your chest, seeing the peaks of your nipples hardening under your soft touch. You tried envisioning his hands squeezing the doughy flesh, your head tilting to one side as you wondered if he'd be satisfied with your size. Small moans escaped you as you continued to fondle yourself, closing your eyes and imagining him whispering sweet nothings into your ear while he teased your breasts. You were sure he’d trail a line of kisses down your neck, pressing his naked front against you so you could feel his excitement poking at the small of your back. A sudden hard pinch to your nipple brought you out of your fantasy, the thought of his cock causing your fingers to twist the sensitive tip excitedly. 

You shook your head under the shower, trying to calm your racing thoughts before they got more explicit. 

To think such things about a man you hardly knew wasn’t good. What if you see him again tomorrow? Could you bear to look at him knowing where your thoughts were straying at this moment? 

You winced, memories of the loaded eye contact you threw his way making you want to smack yourself. Maybe you should apologize next time you see him. To prove to him that you weren’t a crazy lady that regularly gave the stink eye to neighboring passengers. Explain that your stress was getting to you. Perhaps be the first to wave at him next time to show there was no animosity between you. Maybe something could develop once you introduced each other, a giddy little voice tickled your ears.

Once you were done showering and drying your hair, you went back to the living room for your purse. You had placed your phone inside so the rain couldn’t wet it. You needed to wake up at a good time tomorrow to get ready for work so setting up an alarm was crucial. When you grabbed your purse, you noticed it felt lighter and looked down to see it was unzipped and wide open. 

Oh No. There’s no way…

You dug your hand inside, hoping to feel the familiar mass of your phone only to come out empty handed. Then you remembered your fall from earlier.

“Damn it, it must have fallen off when I fell,” you cursed under your breath, gnawing on your fingernail in worry for a minute before sighing tiredly. You needed to sleep and staying up late thinking about your lost phone was not going to help. You’d have to wait until tomorrow morning to ask the driver if anything was found.

Turning off all the lights in your place, you finally headed to bed, a yawn leaving your mouth as you placed a knee in your mattress. Under the covers of your blanket, you tried clearing up your mind so you could sleep quickly. A sudden image of the masked stranger flashed through your head, your growing curiosity of him affecting you even in your most tired state.

Right before you slept, a nagging at the back of your mind told you to be wary of him.

~

A man lay on his bed alone, hair plastered to his forehead as he breathed harshly. His shirt was raised to his waist, exposing his naked pelvis and muscled thighs as he pumped his rigid dick at a furious tempo. 

His choked groans and huffs were muffled by his mask, the man tilting his head back on his pillows to bask in the pleasurable sensations of his hand firmly stroking his length. Perspiration ran down every inch of him, the sweat dampening his bed and making him grunt at how his sheets clung to his heated skin. He slid his hand down his shaft– tightening his grip when he got to the base– hissing when it caused his cock to twitch before sliding it up once more to tease his cockhead and repeat the process. The squelch of the lubricant coating his dick was a decadent symphony next to his pleasured grunts, the aggressive handling of his pleasure nearly causing him to erupt as he continued to fuck his fist. 

He was nearly there, half lidded eyes eyeing the drop of precum threatening to slide down his shaft and mix with the lubricant. 

No, he didn’t want to cum so soon. Not without the image of the pretty bird he’d been stalking for the past month etched in his brain. God, she was so beautiful. Never had he seen a more perfect woman than you. His hands tightened remembering how soft and demure you were when he picked you up. The slight tremble in your body and your skittish behavior making him want to devour you where you stood. 

Biting his lip, he slowed his pace and closed his eyes in concentration, conjuring up an image that would help to reach his climax.

In his mind, it was no longer his hand wrapped around his dick. 

Instead, smaller hands were slowly stroking him in an almost reverent manner, seeming to worship every protruding vein and jerk of his member. A small gasp escaped you when cum drizzled out of his tip, smearing your fingers with the warm liquid to combine with the lube drenching his dick. He could feel the stickiness of it running down his thighs and balls, causing him to shudder at the sensation. 

He could see you biting your lip anxiously, staring at him with those expressive eyes of yours waiting for his instruction. Unable to resist, he'd grab your hair and yank you his throbbing cock, your flushed face gasping at the heat emitting from his rod of meat pressed against your cheek. He hoped you were a smart girl, knowing what he desired from you as he slapped his dick on your lips. 

He'd stare you down, arching an eyebrow as he waited for you to open that sweet mouth of yours. He knew he wasn't a small man–his girth was enough to intimidate even his most experienced past partners– but he was sure he could teach you how to swallow him down like a good girl.

You'd hesitate for too long, testing his patience. He’d need to be firm with you then. He'd pinch your nose between his fingers, blocking your airways and driving you to open your mouth to take a breath. It was all he needed to shove half of his cock inside your heated orifice. A guttural groan would echo in his room, the warmth of the hot cavern of your mouth and wiggling tongue on the underside of his dick making him see white for a second.

He could picture your muffled whimpering, your hands bracing against his thighs to pull away. He'd lift his upper body to get a better grip on your head, not allowing you to escape and forcing more of his dick down your throat. He'd praise you for being so good and lovely for him. Telling you to relax your throat, to make it easier for you. Before long, you'd obey his commands and start bobbing your head slowly to adjust to the fullness in your mouth. 

He'd allow you to work at your own pace, content with seeing your tear ridden face for a few minutes more before taking over when you were going too slow for his liking. Your eyes would widen with alarm when he thrusted his hips up, a gargled whine vibrating through his manhood from the fierce jab in your throat. He’d repeat the same action again, a pleased groan rumbling out of him at the feel of your mouth struggling to accommodate him. From there on, he'd use you like a fleshlight, gripping your hair tightly to pull your face down to every one of his savage thrusts. Spittle and cum would rain down your jaw, messing your appearance as you gagged and moaned around the dick hammering your throat. 

It was the fantasy of seeing you look up at him, eyes pinched with distress and tears streaming down your heated and sweaty face, that made him finally snap.

His hips jerked up in his hand, his body vibrating violently just as his cock shot out endless ropes of cum in the air. He grunted with each twitch of his pelvis, feeling the warm liquid pooling in the crevices of his contracting abs and staining his shirt. His chest heaved with exertion, the stranger breathing heavily as a result of cumming from his heightened lust. His mask hid his delirious smile, the stranger chuckling to himself at the euphoria he felt and the mess he created.

Only you could make him cum so strongly to drive him to lose himself.

Minutes passed until he was able to get his breathing under control, begrudgingly getting out of his bed to clean himself up. 

Something about you had him hooked. What started off as a fleeting crush morphed into a distorted and unhealthy obsession, the stranger falling deeper in love with you every passing day, as well as the urge to take you growing exponentially worse. .

He longed to know what it felt like to have you in his arms, the thought keeping him up often at night.

Luckily for him, his wish finally came true tonight, remembering the softness of your body in his hands. You were a small little thing compared to him, barely reaching his chest. It wouldn't take much to overpower you, the statement giving rise to depraved thoughts of your squirming body underneath him, naked and helpless under his ardent touch. It took everything in him not to pull you closer, wanting to feel your delicious shape against his frame as the fantasy played in his head. He hated his mask at that moment, realizing he could've caught a whiff of your scent too if he wasn't keen on hiding his identity. 

The stranger's eyes furrowed in displeasure at this, angry at himself for missing an opportunity to know you more intimately. Turning off the sink, he didn't bother to dry his hands when he ripped his mask off and flung it in the trash. 

In a foul mood, he exited his bathroom and marched towards his study. It was already past midnight but there was something important he had to do before he slept.

Entering the room, he didn't bother to close the door and sat down, sliding the chair closer to his desk to get to work. He was inputting his PC’s password when he glanced at the rectangular object next to him.

It was your phone. 

He inspected it, taking note of your phone cover and thinking it suited someone like you. He pressed the on button, seeing your phone screen light up and ask for the passcode to access it. He typed in a few guesses and not to his surprise, none worked. 

No worries. This would only be a momentary issue. Nothing that he couldn't crack open once he plugged your device to his computer. Sure enough, within a few moments, all your browsing history and personal information was revealed to him. His eyes traveled greedily over all your files, desperate to know who you were and what you liked.

His impatience to claim you was nearing a tipping point. He already had a small taste of you and it was not enough. HIs hands clenched into fists. He wanted more. Desired to thoroughly possess you and infect you with his love. 

One way or another, you were going to be his.

He would make sure of it.

[kngrose]

Do you mind writing more about bully!sevika?

𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐊𝐀 𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐁𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐘! 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐔𝐄𝐃…

harassing you at the bar

WARNINGS: bullying, harassment, degradation, humiliation, implied dacryphilia, slight violence. be safe, heed warnings!

from roselí. ᡣ𐭩 : THE AMOUNT OF ASKS FOR THIS. y’all are depraved… i’m here for it ^^

The dim, oppressive atmosphere of The Last Drop seemed heavier tonight, or maybe that was just the weight of Sevika’s gaze boring into you from across the room. You’d been foolish to come back here— it wasn’t exactly a safe haven for someone like you. And Sevika? She’d made it her personal mission to remind you of that every chance she got.

You didn’t notice her approaching until her mechanical arm slammed onto the table, the impact making your drink slosh over the rim. You froze, feeling her looming presence before you dared to look up. You suppose now that thinking a secluded table in the corner would’ve been enough to conceal you was silly. She’d always had this weird sixth sense when it came to you— somehow always knew of your presence before you were made aware of hers.

“Still showing your face, huh?” she drawled, her voice dripping with mockery. “Maybe I’m not making myself clear enough.” You forced yourself to meet her gaze, but the smirk tugging at her lips made it hard to hold. She loved this, the little game where she chipped away at your composure like it was some cheap toy she’d grown bored of.

“I’m just here for a drink,” you muttered, closing in on yourself, voice quieter than you wanted it to be. “I’m not here to cause trouble,” you tried, but your voice cracked slightly under the pressure. She scoffed tilted her head, her sharp eyes scanning you from head to toe like she was appraising a broken machine. “No… you know better than that.”

Sevika smirked, sliding into the seat across from you. The motion was fluid and unnervingly casual, like she wasn't even trying to intimidate you-she just was. "You look worse than usual. Rough day? Or did you just wake up that way?"

Your chest tightened, but you kept your eyes fixed on the tabletop; you knew better than to rise to her bait. You tried to focus on your drink, anything to avoid meeting her gaze, but her sharp fingers grabbed the glass and slammed it back down on the table.

The ice rattled in the cup.

"Don't ignore me," she spat. "You're not that special."

The ice rattled in the cup.

Her presence loomed over you like a storm cloud, heavy and oppressive. You couldn't breathe with her so close, her mechanical arm casting shadows on your face as it clicked ominously beside her. She leaned forward, resting her chin in her human hand as her metal fingers tapped rhythmically against the table. “You’re pathetic.” She snarled, noting the way you avoided her eyes.

You clenched your fists under the table, trying to steady your breathing. "Why do you even care?" Her grin returned, wider, predatory now. "Care?" she repeated, her voice dripping with a mixture amusement and defensiveness. She sat up straight, towering over you and blocking out the flickering neon light behind her. "This isn’t about caring, idiot. It’s about entertainment.”

"Oh, you've got a drink," she said mockingly, plucking the glass from your hand before you could react. Her metal arm shot out, grabbing the edge of your drink and sliding it toward her. She held it up to the light, inspecting it like it was beneath her. "What is this? Some watered-down piss? Figures. Suits you."

"Give it back," you said, your voice low but trembling.

Her laugh was sharp and cruel. "Give it back," she mimicked, her tone dripping with condescension as she placed it back on the table. She sniffed it, then shoved the glass carelessly, the contents spilling onto the table with an exaggerated flourish. The room seemed to grow quieter, the other patrons glancing your way before quickly returning to their own business. No one in Zaun was going to stick their neck out for you.

“Oops,” she said flatly, her grin morphing into an ice gold glare. “That was unnecessary,” you said, your voice trembling despite your best efforts. Sevika’s expression darkened, and she leaned in so close you could feel the heat of her breath. “Unnecessary?” she echoed, her tone low and dangerous. “Let me make something clear: You might think your voice matters, but it doesn’t. Someone as weak and useless as yourself doesn’t get to decide what’s unnecessary.”

“I’ll tell you what is necessary though,” She offers, gesturing towards the spill on the table, “It’s necessary that you clean up your fucking mess.” It wasn’t a suggestion. You felt your blood boil, but you knew you couldn’t do anything about it. That just served to make you all the more irritated.

“But, I didn’t—” She raised a single eyebrow, a look that said: Are you questioning me? You heeded her warning, reaching over for the tub of napkins placed conveniently on the table.

The sting started slow, but it picked up rapidly, a feeling like fire washing over your cheek. You barely had time to register that she’d slapped you. “You should know better than that.” She spat, shoving your hand away from the napkins. “You think you deserve anything that dignifies you?”

You distinctly remember feeling small when she’d shoved your face into the table, your nose crashing onto the wood painfully. The drink was cold as it met your face, making your eyes sting as it slid through your eyelashes. Her grip in your hair was excruciatingly tight, your scalp burning where her hand held you. “This is how you deserve to clean up your mess. You lick it up.”

You physically grimace as she rolls your face around in your own drink, a choked sob finally rolling from your throat. The one you’d spent your own money on. The one you just wanted to sip slowly and enjoy.

You didn’t need to hear her snickering to know that she was, but you could.

You struggled to free yourself from her grip, but her fingers were like iron. She pulled your head up by your hair, dragging your face closer to hers, her words searing your skin.

"I could snap you like a twig if I felt like it," Sevika purred, her mechanical arm moving with precision as it hovered over your shoulder. "But no... that would be too quick. You don't deserve a quick end. No, I'll drag it out. I'll make you beg for mercy before I'm done with you."

The words twisted like knives in your gut, but you couldn't look away. Fear rooted you to the spot, and that made it worse. "You're lucky I don't find you too boring yet," she added, releasing your chin but running a finger down the side of your face. It was cold, and you flinched at the touch, but she didn't care. "Maybe you'll earn some of my respect. Maybe you'll fight back, or maybe you'll just keep looking at me like a lost puppy."

She took her free hand and smeared the drink over your face some more, "But probably not. You'll just keep letting me walk all over you. And I'll keep enjoying it." She turned to leave, offering you one last once over, her eyes glinting with what looked like satisfaction.

"Now," she patted your cheek, "Why don't you do yourself a favor and crawl back to whatever hole you came from before someone decides to make an example out of you?"

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[itwllnvrgtbttr]

Some asks I was able to recover!

- Rado and Simmie kissing and saying they love each other.

- Rado and Simmie makeout sesh.

- Simmie's favorite fish.

- Has Simmie ever gone to a theme park?

[after-witch]

Sweet Valentine [wri0thesley OC Lucas x reader]

Title: Sweet Valentine [@wri0thesley OC Lucas x Reader]

Synopsis: It's Valentine's Day and Lucas has some sweet surprises planned, but things don't go as well as you'd hoped.

Word count: 3164

notes: Yandere, kidnapped reader, mentions of cannibalism, abusive relationship, mentions of violence, non-graphic descriptions of noncon and dubcon sex, reader is implied to be afab

“You… want somethin’ special for Valentine’s Day, sweetheart?”

Lucas’ voice is low and tender, and when you look up at him, you see a faint blush dusting his cheeks. It’s a familiar sight. He always gets like this, when it comes to romance. Or what he thinks is romance, anyway.

You think it’s all that vulnerability that comes along with romance; the possibility of rejection, as if you were stupid enough to outright reject anything he wanted to give you. Not unless you wanted to meet the sharp end of a glare

(Or an axe.)

But it’s there anyway, that vulnerability. In the way he sometimes glances away or the way his cheeks gain a deeper tint or the lilt in his voice. He gets awkward and when you’re feeling dark and low, you sometimes wonder what he’d do if you didn’t thank him for his gifts, if you didn’t lean into his arms when he opened them, if you wiped away his kisses, if you were as ungrateful and awful as you were currently too afraid to be. 

The answer always comes swiftly: He’d kill you, moron. 

Maybe not right away. But you’d chip at his goodwill, such as it was, bit by bit until nothing was left but raw steel. And where would that raw steel go? Right into your skull, stupid.

You’re a lot of things. Scared. A liar. Helpless. But you’re not stupid. 

So you return his blush with a practiced meek gaze. The kind where you glance up at him and then look quickly down, and cross one arm (but never both, that’s too petulant) over your chest. 

Shy, that’s what you are; or rather, what you’ve become in order to survive here. 

If he thinks you’re shy and quiet and meek, it seems easier for him to brush aside the way you tremble; the way you flinch; the way you sometimes find yourself begging him to wait, just wait oh please, you’re not quite ready to go all the way yet. 

And if you have to debase yourself by taking his length into your trembling hands, by letting him touch you until you trembled and came on his fingers, it’s what you’ll do to put off the inevitable for another day. 

“Nothing special,” you say, voice crackling with the dryness of the morning air. He doesn’t respond. He’s disappointed, you think. Nothing special isn’t good enough for Valentine’s Day. So you add, quietly but quickly: “But maybe… If it’s not too much trouble… some chocolate?” 

You glance up at him and he’s got an almost goofy smile on his face now. It makes you relieved--it makes you sick.

“Or--or we could watch a romantic comedy?” You suggest. You bite your lip then, a holdover gesture from your old life. “Oh, but you don’t really have any, so I guess we could just--”

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that.” He pulls you close without giving you a choice and you lean your head against his shoulder, just like you ought to do. “I’ll find you somethin’ in town this weekend. Gotta go get some supplies anyway.” 

You smile and press your face towards his chest, so that he feels the curve of your lips against his shirt. “Thank you, Lucas. Really… really any movie you like is fine, but if you can find one, that would be okay.”

He sighs and presses one large hand against the back of your head, trailing it down past your neck--he could snap it so easily--until he’s rubbing your back.

“You’re the sweetest, you know that, angel?” 

You don’t answer, because you don’t need to, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head. 

You were good. You behaved well.  You did what he wanted. Did it matter that you didn’t want chocolates or to watch a movie with him for Valentine’s Day or any day at all? Did it matter that at home, your real home, you were loud and brash and your mother would have pissed herself laughing if anyone called you shy? 

No. Of course not.

If only the truth wouldn’t get you killed. 

You don’t want chocolates or a VHS copy of some outdated romantic comedy.

The only thing you really want for Valentine’s Day is to go home. 

--

The chocolate isn’t great, but it’s not awful, either. There was even a cherry cordial--your favorite--and Lucas’ eyes had lit up when you told him so. 

It was a nice surprise. 

After all, the cynical part of you imagined Lucas showing up with a dusty box of chocolates that tasted like stale sweetness; the kind you find overpriced at drugstores, boxes that forgetful husbands pick up on the way home from work on the day-of. 

But when he came home from town, he’d sheepishly handed over a bouquet of colorfully dyed flowers. A mixture of carnations that were an impossibly vivid pink and daisies with bright blue petals. It was just the kind of bouquet you used to pick out for your mom when you were a kid, because you were drawn to the pops of unnaturally colorful simple flowers more than you were ordinary red roses. 

“Know you like, uh…” He’d held out the bouquet and waited for you to take it from him before continuing. “Know you like this kind of pink, so…” 

You held the bouquet to your chest and felt something that might have been pleasure. It was nice to have something familiar. Something you might pick up at a supermarket on the way home from work. Real flowers were beautiful, of course, and you’d grown to love the sight of them surrounding the cabin. 

But these couldn’t be found in the wilderness in which you were now settled. They were a sign that people still existed out there, people that weren’t you and Lucas and the ghosts of people who came before you.

And that made them more special.

--

“Honey?”

“Angel?.”

“Darlin’.”

It’s the darlin’ that yanks you out of your disassociation. How long had it been going on? You glance down at your fingers and realize you’re holding a half-eaten chocolate bon-bon. Your elbow feels stiff, you must have been holding it up for a while.

You shakily set it back down on the box and force yourself to look over at Lucas, who is cuddled up next to you, holding you in a firm but warm grip, with his arm slung around your shoulder keeping you close. 

He looks irritated. Like you said something wrong again. Only you weren’t saying anything, but that might be the problem; ignoring him was just as bad (sometimes worse) as doing the wrong thing.

“You don’t like the movie?” His voice is gruffer than it should be today, of all days. 

The movie? 

Oh shit.

You blink and blink and slowly details around you come back into focus. The dim lighting in the cabin, to set the mood. The flickering light of the TV and the soft whir of the VCR that could only be heard faintly under the movie itself.

And the movie…

The movie was almost over. The VHS he’d found was of a vaguely familiar movie you remember seeing on TV a few times. It wasn’t a classic but it wasn’t a stink-bomb, either. 

“Angel…” 

He turns toward you and after a moment, takes your chin into his hands.  You quickly glance down--meek, shy, feeble thing that you are--so he doesn’t see the fear that must be blinking through the back of your eyeballs by now. 

“You don’t like the movie, do you? Did I pick the wrong one?” There’s none of the usual sweet compromise in his voice, though, that makes you think saying “yes” might be an option. Instead, you get the sense that he’s laying traps for you to step on. Traps meant for someone ungrateful who completely zones out during what was supposed to be a romantic evening snuggling on the couch. 

Dumbass, you think. I’m such a dumbass.

“Do you…” You speak suddenly and swallow hard. Talking is awkward with his fingers holding your chin, but he doesn’t let go. “Do you want a chocolate?” You offer up the box that’s half-empty by now. The cherry cordials were gone, and maybe you should have offered him one since they were your favorite. But there’s nothing to be done about it, so you hold up the last caramel-filled piece towards him. 

Maybe he’ll appreciate the gesture. 

He finally lets go of your chin and huffs out a snort through his nose. That’s good, usually. A sign he’s calming down. But he doesn’t smile at you, and you can feel the heaviness in the air, a sort of sick pressure that you need to relieve before it gets worse. 

“I’m not much for sweets.” He says this like you ought to know. And you do, actually, it’s just… you don’t know what else to do. 

Your lips quirk downward. You lift the piece until it’s close to his mouth. 

“I know, I just--wanted to share. Please? One bite?” It’s almost a reversal, really; the way he sometimes has to nudge you to eat, when your stomach is all twisted in knots from anxiety or when you can’t shove away the thought that what you’re eating is almost certainly not an animal. Sometimes he feeds you just because he’s in a particular mood, a mood where you need to be more fragile and helpless than you are, which isn’t saying much.

Lucas’ eyes widen then and he finally smiles softly at you. His voice is low and gruff but you think, not quite as irritated as before. 

“All right, angel. A bite.”

He opens his mouth and you slide the chocolate forward until it’s under his teeth. He takes a bite and you pull away, caramel dripping from the half-eaten chocolate that you set back in the box. 

Lucas chews with his mouth closed (he has impeccable manners when he’s not murdering people, thank God for that) but then there’s the thought of the chocolate and caramel being chewed by the same teeth that just ate a “steak” for dinner--what if there’s a stray piece of meat left in his molars and they mix? 

It’s enough to make the sticky sweet flavor of the cherry cordials rise in your throat, acidic and sour from the chocolate digesting in your stomach. 

“Sorry,” you murmur, nuzzling closer to him like an apologetic pet as he finishes chewing. “I didn’t mean to get distracted earlier.” 

Lucas hums and pulls you tighter against him, harder than normal. He presses a kiss against the side of your head. A hint of caramel wafts in the air.  

“Mind you don’t drift often again, honey.” 

-

Lucas is still upset with you. Although you can’t quite call this “still” upset, because this is different from earlier. He’s not still annoyed that you were distracted during the movie or, at least, that’s not the real source of his irritation.

But what--what did you do? You thanked him for the flowers and chocolates. You kissed him (on the lips!) after he gave them to you.  You snuggled on the couch and yes you fucked up during the movie, but you made up for it, you thought. 

You set the table for dinner without being asked, you ate without hesitation and complimented his cooking… you were quiet, you helped him clean up the eggs, you made a joke about Dolly the chicken needing a Valentine’s Day card from him and he chuckled at it. 

You didn’t argue when he insisted he scrub you up during the bath, even when his hand dipped between your legs and lingered on your chest. You quietly let him brush your hair and pick out your pajamas (a pink nightie, tonight) and did everything you thought he wanted.

So what in the hell did you do wrong today that has him practically glowering at you as you both sit on the bed? You’ve re-read the same page in your book a hundred times while you tried to figure it out. You can’t go to bed like this, wondering if he’s angry, wondering if you’ll wake up in the morning to find him hovering over you with a glare and a weapon. Or maybe you won’t even wake up at all. 

“Angel?” There’s a gruff edge to the word tonight that tightens your chest.

“Yes?” Your voice is squeakier than you intended. You tuck a bookmark into your pages and set the book down on your nightstand, and look up at Lucas with practiced meekness that is made all the more real through the gnawing fear in your belly.

Lucas hesitates before he speaks. Emotions shift on his face. Irritation, disappointment, even something you think is sadness. They only make the feeling in your chest worse. What did you do? Why is he acting this way?

“I… wasn’t expectin’ nothing fancy, you know. But I thought you’d at least make somethin’ for me today.”

Make something for him? 

Oh.

Oh.

Fuck.

In all your worries about behaving perfectly, you didn’t even think about getting Lucas something for Valentine’s Day. Making him a card or throwing together a quick embroidery hoop or--something. That’s what a good spouse would do, right? It’s what he would expect from you, on today of all days. Sure, he wasn’t big on presents, and he’d told you a few months ago not to worry about Christmas (you’d embroidered a scene outside the window of his bedroom, the trees and snow and a little silver rabbit) but this was different. 

It was a couple’s day, and you were part of that couple. 

And you’d fucked up.

He’s not done, either.

“I went outta my way to get you everything you wanted. Drove all the way into town… An’ you didn’t even pay attention during the movie.” If you weren’t increasingly terrified,  you might be able to snort at how petulant he sounded, complaining that you didn’t watch the movie well enough. But there’s nothing funny about the way his voice is starting to raise or the way you can practically feel his muscles getting tenser by the moment.

“Did you even appreciate any of it?” It’s more to himself than to you, and that scares you more than anything else has in recent memory. 

Your mouth comes up with a plan the exact moment that your brain does.  You’re not sure if your brain would have let you go through with it, if it had more than a split second to think. 

“I did get you something!” 

Lucas shifts on the bed and looks at you questioningly. He doesn’t look convinced. Not yet. There’s a swift moment in which you have to convince him and you jump into it, feet first.

“I… I just didn’t know how to wrap it, that’s all.” Your throat bobs when you swallow and you look up at him with a soft expression that’s part nerves, part hope. 

“I don’t know what y’mean, darlin’.”

 His eyebrows furrow and you take a deep breath before you reach over and take his hand. You give it a squeeze and shift on the bed yourself, this time leaning backwards on the pillows.

“My gift is…” Oh,  you don’t want to; but you have nothing else you can give him now. You swallow again and fiddle with the end of your nightgown. It’s a flimsy thing, isn’t it? 

“I’m ready to… that is--I’m ready to…” 

You can’t finish the words but you don’t need to, because both of Lucas’ eyebrows raise before his lips curl into a delighted smile as he realizes what you mean.

He looks giddy. He looks drunk, despite not having a drink tonight. He looks like he’s going to devour you, and you can only be mildly grateful that it’s not in the way you normally fear. 

“Oh, angel.” 

In moments, he’s shifted above you, his body looming over your own, filling up all of your space with his size and warmth. 

“This is the best gift you could give me.” He presses a chaste kiss to your lips, then again; a kiss to your cheeks, to your eyes that close so he can kiss the lids. “I’m sorry I doubted you. Oh, honey, you must have been thinkin’ about this all day. No wonder you were so distracted.” 

There’s nowhere to go, if you wanted to go. Nowhere to run, if you were capable of running. He’s here and you’re here and this is going to happen now.

No more putting it off, no more gentle pleas, no more convincing him that you can do that and not this, not yet.

All because you forgot to make a damn Valentine’s Card. 

His hands hold the edge of your nightie and begin to lift it up, exposing the soft cotton underwear underneath. 

“I love you so much. You know that, sweetheart?”

He doesn’t take the nightgown off; instead he bunches it up against your neck, exposing your chest. 

“I love you too,” you murmur, because you’ve had enough of your own stupidity today not to answer his declarations. 

Your eyes flick up to the ceiling as he begins pulling down your underwear. 

It’s going to happen now. He’ll fuck you. And once that happens, well. It’ll keep happening. Every night? Every other night? You don’t know, but he’ll expect it. Things are changing and you can’t stop them. All you can do is try to scramble for what little pleasantries this isolated, captive life can give you. 

Like not-bad chocolates and bunnies outside the window.

Lucas’ hands grip the meat of your thighs and pull them apart with little resistance on your end. You don’t want to make it worse, do you? And it was your idea, you can’t even pretend to be anything but meekly nervous, can you?

He murmurs something in appreciation at the sight of your naked sex and your fingers clutch the sheets underneath you in anticipation. 

You don’t want to look down. It’s like being at the doctor’s--looking away when they give you the shot. You hear the sound of his trousers being pushed down. But he doesn’t push into you just yet.

Instead, he leans down, pressing a hot, wet kiss to your mouth that opens without argument. 

There’s  a faint taste of peppermint toothpaste and a hint of lingering caramel--he didn’t brush his molars well enough, maybe--in his mouth. 

“Love you,” he whispers against your lips. Maybe he sees the nervousness in your gaze and for once, is fine with it. It’s normal to be anxious about your first time, after all. “It's gonna feel good, I promise… I know what I’m doin’.”

Damn, you think vacantly, stomach lurching against your thoughts when you feel the unmistakable press of something hot and hard and wet against your naked thigh. I wish I saved the second cherry cordial for tomorrow.

[ex1ledbrethren]

FAMILY REVEAL :0!!

Glenn with his little sisters and parents, and Max with his big brother, ex-wife, and baby Isabelle

[filmholicrose]

"Three Shades of Mercy"

Exploring the cost of believing in monsters.

Pairings: F! fbi agent x Matthew Murdock - F! fbi agent x Benjamin Poindexter

Summery: Framed by the man she’s hunting and betrayed by the agency she trusted, FBI profiler Avery Quinn goes rogue to expose Wilson Fisk’s hold over the city. But her investigation puts her on a collision course with Daredevil—a vigilante she believes is working for the enemy. Their alliance is tense, electric, and far more dangerous than anything in her case files. Then there’s Matt Murdock—quiet, principled, magnetic. A man who sees past her armor. As her loyalty is torn between two men with the same face, Avery refuses to abandon a third: Benjamin “Dex” Poindexter, the broken colleague-turned-killer whose darkness she still believes can be undone. Even after everything.

Important: Set during Daredevil Season 3 and stretching into Born Again, this series follows Avery—an original character, fully fleshed out and central to the narrative. This isn’t an x-reader fic. It’s a longform, character-driven story with canon rewrites, emotional chaos, and lots of pain. Buckle up.

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four.

The rain had started an hour ago—light at first, almost polite. Now it slammed against the pavement like a threat, soaking Avery Quinn through her trench coat and into the threads of her patience.

She stood just outside a diner in Hell’s Kitchen, watching the reflection of her own face in the glass. Her hair was pulled back, sharp and severe, the way she always wore it when everything else felt like it was unravelling. Inside, agents from the New York field office laughed over coffee. Three of them. All ones who used to nod at her in the hallway. All ones who now pretended she didn’t exist.

She didn’t go in. She didn’t need the performance. Not tonight.

The Bureau had quietly suspended her three days ago. No press, no hearings—just a whisper campaign and file sealed with administrative leave pending internal investigation. That’s what the letter had said. They'd tried to bury her while smiling to her face. And Avery had smiled right back. Because she knew Fisk was behind it.

And he’d made one mistake. He didn’t kill her.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket—She glanced down. Nadeem.

She sighed, thumbed the green icon, and brought the phone to her ear. “Don’t say it,” she said before he could speak.

There was a short pause. Then the quiet smile in his voice. “I wasn’t going to.”

“You were.”

“I was going to ask if you’ve eaten. But sure, let’s skip to the argument.”

She almost smiled. Almost. “I had coffee.”

“That’s not food, Avery. That’s anxiety in a cup.”

“Sounds appropriate.”

“Tell me you’re inside somewhere. Please.”

Avery exhaled, her breath fogging the inside of the collar she hadn’t pulled up. “Define inside.”

“A place with walls. A roof.”

She looked up at the grey sky and scrunching her nose. “Nope.”

“You shouldn’t be out,” he said, softer now. “Especially not like this. They’re still watching you.”

“I know.”

“Avery…” Ray sighed softly, a sound full of worry and too many long nights. “You need to stop. You need to breathe. Just for one day.”

“I’m breathing,” she said flatly.

More silence. More rain. She could tell he’s agitated.

“They’re not going to find a solution fast,” Ray said gently. “Internal investigations move slow. That’s the point. It gives people time to forget the headlines.”

She didn’t say anything. Just shifted her weight against the brick wall behind her, fingers tapping idly at her thigh.

Ray softened his tone further. “You’re not on trial. You’re on leave. That’s not the same thing.”

“They took my clearance,” she said quietly. “They locked my files. My notes. My name’s being whispered like a virus. Don’t tell me I’m not already guilty.”

“Come on,” he said. “You know how this works. They do this to buy time. To look clean when it hits the press. But they’ll clear you.”

“And if they don’t?” Her voice cracked—barely, but enough for Ray to hear it. “They did this to Ben and now I’m being framed we are going down one by one. If Fisk keeps tightening the screws? If they bury me completely for getting too close?”

There was a long pause. Then, softer: “Avery, we don’t even know it’s him yet.”

“Yes, we do.” Her words were sharper now, biting the air.

“I won't just sit in my apartment pretending I don’t know what’s happening. Fisk’s people are moving.”

There was silence for a beat. Just static and the soft thrum of rain against metal on his side of the line.

“You’re not on active duty,” he said finally. “You’re not cleared to follow any of this.”

“I’m not doing it as an agent.”

“Avery—”

“I’m doing it as someone who gives a damn.”

His voice dropped low—gentle, careful. “You’re doing it as someone who's reckless stubborn and trying to get themselves killed.”

That one hit. She looked away from the streetlamp, blinking the water from her lashes. “If he’s behind this… if he’s building something again, quietly, slowly—I have to move now. Before people start getting hurt.”

“Again, we don’t even know if it’s him.”

“You really believe that?” she asked, voice barely audible.

Ray didn’t answer right away. And the hesitation was everything.

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” he admitted.

She closed her eyes. There it was—the thing she was most afraid of. The creeping doubt in even the most solid people. If Ray Nadeem was losing his footing, then what the hell was she standing on?

“I know how it feels,” she said, eyes locked on raindrops falling on her shoes one by one. “When something’s rotting and everyone pretends it smells like roses. I know how it feels when no one listens.”

“I’m listening,” he said softly.

She smiled, the kind that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Then tell me to keep going.”

He was quiet again. So quiet, she could hear the rain through his end of the line too. Probably standing on his own back porch, phone pressed to his temple, guilt coiling in his ribs.

“I can’t tell you that,” he said finally.

She didn’t expect him to.

“Just… check in,” he added. “Don’t ghost me, alright? Not tonight.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

He sighed again, resigned but tethered to her all the same.

“Go home, Avery.”

She hung up.

But she didn’t go home.

Instead, she chased another lead.

The stench hit first—salt, rot, gasoline—seeping through the gaps in the wooden planks and clinging to Avery’s skin like sweat. The kind of smell that reminded her of evidence rooms and wet alleyways, of blood that had already dried before anyone found it.

The docks stretched out in silence, broken only by the distant hum of the city and the soft slap of water against rusted steel. Somewhere behind her, a ship creaked, moaning like it was tired of being forgotten. Avery didn’t flinch. Her body was taut, her muscles burning from hours of motion, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t.

Her boots moved slow and precise across the gravel, her breath steady even as her mind cracked beneath the surface. Twenty-four hours of no sleep. Three days since the Bureau pulled her badge. One week since her name started appearing in whispers—evidence tampering, questionable judgment, emotional compromise.

They hadn’t arrested her. Not yet. But they’d done worse.

They told her to stay home. To rest. To let them handle it.

So naturally, she found herself breaking into a shipping dock on the edge of Hell’s Kitchen with nothing but a 9mm and the bitter taste of betrayal still on her tongue.

Fisk was moving something tonight. She didn’t have the details—no paperwork, no surveillance footage. Just a breadcrumb trail of encrypted burner texts, a half-corrupted shipping manifest, and a gut feeling she hadn’t learned how to ignore.

She reached the edge of the warehouse and froze.

Movement.

Not loud. Not clumsy. But there. Just enough to make the hair at the back of her neck rise.

Avery didn’t speak. She moved instead, gun already in hand, safety already off. The door creaked open an inch, and that was all she needed. She slipped inside, the darkness swallowing her whole.

Then—he moved.

She pivoted hard, arms steady, and aimed dead center his scarf covered forehead.

“Move a muscle,” she said coldly, “and I swear to God, I’ll put a bullet in your skull.”

Daredevil didn’t speak. He didn’t raise his hands. Just stood there, motionless.

His head tilted, almost curious. Like he was listening to something only he could hear.

That made her stomach knot.

“I know who you are,” she said. “You hang bodies from rooftops and call it justice. You show up where you’re not supposed to and pretend, you’re different from the filth you chase.”

Finally, he spoke.

“You don’t belong here.”

His voice was quiet, rough. Not threatening—just... weighted.

She stepped closer, pressing the barrel of the gun against his chest now. No fear. Just fury.

“Neither do you.”

There was a pause. And then, gently—too gently:

“I’ve heard about you, Agent Quinn.”

Her jaw clenched.

“You were,” he said. “Until someone decided you were too close to the truth.”

The words hit like glass beneath her ribs.

She hated that he knew. Hated that everyone knew. Her downfall had become a public chew toy, passed around like gossip, dissected by men in suits who didn’t care how much she'd bled for that fucking badge.

Behind her, deeper in the warehouse, someone clicked the safety off a gun.

Avery heard it the same moment he did—but Matt’s head had already tilted a fraction toward the sound.

They had seconds.

“This isn’t the fight you need to be having right now,” he murmured.

Avery didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. She didn’t trust him—but she trusted the sound of a safety being cocked in the shadows. That was universal. And it was closing in.

She could feel the twitch in her palm, the familiar tremor of adrenaline building in her spine.

“Walk away,” he said, low and deliberate.

She hated that he sounded calm. Like he’d already figured her out. Like he knew she’d stay.

“I’m not walking away,” she said.

Daredevil took another step forward. His voice dropped an octave, smooth steel wrapped in warning.

“Then put the gun down, Agent Quinn. And I’ll make sure you don’t end up in a body bag tonight.”

Avery exhaled sharply through her nose, frustration flaring in her eyes. She hated ultimatums. Hated that he was right. Hated that, deep down, part of her didn’t want him to leave either.

If she were doing this the dirty way—if she ever let go of the rules the Bureau drilled into her bones—these were the kinds of people she’d be working with. Or against. Masked men with fists like sermons and voices full of war. Ghosts in the system. Vigilantes with blood on their hands and just enough righteousness to sleep at night. She wasn’t like them. Not yet. But standing in a dark warehouse, tracking shadows and lies with no badge on her hip and no backup in her ear—she wasn’t sure how far off she really was

“I’m not putting the gun down,” she said finally, voice low. Controlled. “But I’m also not dying tonight.”

And she moved—fluid, trained. A step back, pivoting behind the nearest stack of crates. Not full concealment, but enough to take cover and reposition. Her body tensed in a defensive stance, shoulder to the wall, gun aimed between the masked man and the dark mouth of the warehouse corridor.

She didn’t trust either of them.

Her finger rested on the trigger like it belonged there. A breath in. Hold. Out.

Daredevil didn’t stop her. Just turned, mirroring the shift in her stance.

Five men burst from the shadows—fast, tactical, armed to kill. Their guns rose in unison, aimed with practiced precision.

Daredevil didn’t wait. He moved like lightning striking pavement—sudden, violent, beautiful in a way Avery refused to acknowledge. His arm lashed out, knocking the first weapon sideways just as it fired. The gunshot shattered the stillness, burying itself harmlessly into the steel of a nearby crate.

In one fluid motion, he twisted the man’s wrist, disarming him with surgical ease, then drove an elbow hard into his ribs. The man folded with a wheeze, crumpling to the ground.

Avery stayed frozen for half a breath, eyes narrowing. These men weren’t waiting on a ship. They were here for this.

That realization clicked into place just as her gun slid back into its holster. Instinct. Clarity. She didn’t even think—she moved.

One of the attackers raised a crowbar, swinging for Daredevil’s head. Before he was about to duck, Avery intercepted without hesitation, her hand snapping out to seize his wrist mid-swing. She yanked him off balance, her body already turning with the force.

A knee to the gut—sharp, brutal.

An elbow to the head—clean and final.

He stumbled, weapon clattering to the ground. But the second Avery entered the fight, something shifted—and not the way it should have.

It wasn’t just tactical. It wasn’t just instinct.

It was intentional.

The moment she moved into view, one of the men locked eyes with her—and for half a second, his expression cracked. Recognition. Not surprise. Not confusion. Recognition.

And then all three of them adjusted. Not just repositioned—recalibrated.

They moved with the kind of purpose you don’t waste on backup. Their lines of fire shifted with brutal precision, their formation tightening around one new objective: her.

Avery didn’t understand it yet—didn’t know her face had been passed down through back channels, that Fisk had quietly labelled her a problem that needed to disappear. But her instincts screamed it anyway. Something about the way they moved. The way they wanted her.

She wasn’t a complication to neutralize. She was the mark.

And that realization hit her harder than any bullet.

Her pulse kicked, but her movements stayed sharp. Feet planted, heart steady.

This was a trap and they had come here to kill her.

And she still had no intention of dying.

The first two men broke off from Daredevil without hesitation, making a beeline for her like a pack executing a plan. The remaining three stayed on him—not to kill, but to slow. Hold him down long enough to finish her off.

Fisk didn’t send amateurs.

A sharp jab landed clean against her ribs, knocking the air from her lungs. She barely had time to process the pain before the next strike came for her side. She twisted just in time to dodge, but another blow caught her hip, throwing her balance off for a second too long.

She didn’t fall.

She planted her foot, gritted her teeth, and retaliated.

Her fist cracked hard against a jaw, sending one of them stumbling back. Another attacker lunged. She ducked beneath the swing meant to take her out and caught the first man’s punch mid-air, twisting his arm until his knees buckled—only, he recovered faster than expected, surging back up before she could finish him.

Her breath came sharp and focused, pain pulsing at her ribs, but her form held. Her body moved on muscle memory. Her training was second nature. She could hold her own.

She would.

But they weren’t trying to subdue her.

They were trying to end her.

Daredevil heard it. The sharp intake of breath, the shift in boot weight, the ugly thud of a punch landing too close to the sound of her heartbeat. He heard her recover, adjust, keep fighting—but the pace of it, the way they converged on her like hounds closing in.

Not tonight.

One of the attackers lunged with a knife, the blade singing through air. He caught his wrist mid-swing, yanking it wide. With a hard twist and a calculated pull, he flipped the man sideways, cracking him against the edge of a shipping crate. The man choked, stunned—and Daredevil drove a final knee into his throat.

One down.

The second came faster, heavier. Tried to overwhelm with brute force.

He let him.

He dropped low, anchored himself, and at the last second pivoted, throwing the man over his shoulder. The landing sounded like a car wreck. He didn’t wait—he slammed an elbow into his skull before he could recover.

Two.

Avery’s ribs screamed with every breath, but she moved through the pain like a switch had flipped—like the world narrowed into combat geometry and target priority. She didn’t fight pretty. She fought smart.

One of the men came at her fast—too fast. But she ducked low, sweeping his legs out from under him in one brutal arc. As he hit the ground, she didn’t hesitate—drove her knee into his throat and silenced him. jammed her elbow back into his solar plexus. He doubled over, and she followed up with a sharp, calculated strike to the side of his head. He dropped like a marionette with its strings cut.

Three Down.

Another lunged without warning, swinging wide. Sloppy. Rushed. She sidestepped fast, let his weight carry him past her, then drove the heel of her boot into the back of his knee with pinpoint force. He dropped with a curse, off balance and disoriented—but not out.

She didn't give him time to get up.

Avery grabbed him by the collar, yanked him forward, and slammed his head into the edge of the crate hard enough to rattle her knuckles. He went limp.

Then—click.

Daredevil turned toward the sound.

A gun cocked. Not aimed at him.

At her.

The world narrowed to that one heartbeat. Hers.

He moved faster than thought.

The shot rang out—but the bullet never met its mark. Daredevil was already there, his arm knocking the shooter’s wrist off target. The shot whined wide, embedding itself in metal. The gun hit the ground a second later, followed by its wielder.

Five.

Then—silence.

Just the ragged breathing of unconscious men.

Daredevil stood still; his knuckles ached. Blood—someone else’s—spattered his clothed forearm.

Across from him, Avery straightened, chest heaving, hand still near her weapon. Her lip was bleeding. One of her sleeves torn. Eyes locked on him.

He exhaled through his nose. Around them, the city fell eerily still. Just the hum of distant traffic and the slow lap of water against the docks. But underneath all of it, he could still hear it—her heartbeat. Steady. Fierce. Not panicked.

Not afraid.

Still standing. That was something.

He turned toward her, head tilting slightly as he tracked her breath.

“That was sloppy,” he said, voice calm and laced with quiet smugness. Not out of breath. Not even close.

There was no tension in his body now. No urgency. Just that maddening composure she’d already learned to hate.

“I’ve gotta say,” he went on, tone dipping into something smoother, like he was enjoying this more than he should, “for someone with FBI credentials, I expected a little more strategy. Maybe some restraint.”

He feigned consideration, lips curving ever so slightly.

“Then again… you’re on leave, right? No badge. No team.” He let that hang. “No backup.”

Another step. Close enough for her to see the faint cut along his jaw. Fresh. Probably from shielding her.

“That why you’re out here alone?” he asked, voice softer now, threaded with something more pointed. “Trying to prove something?”

The breeze rolled in off the bay, cold and sharp, catching her coat and the loose ends of his voice.

“You’re lucky,” he said, finally. “Fisk is underestimating you.”

Her gaze sharpened.

“They weren’t just moving cargo tonight,” he continued. “They were waiting for you. Watching. If you’d walked in five minutes earlier, I’d be dragging your body out instead of your ego.”

He let it hang in the air like a verdict. Heavy. Undeniable.

“Tell me,”He said, the smirk finally curling at the edge of his mouth, “is this the part where you claim you had it under control?”

Mocking. Curious. Challenging.

Avery rolled her shoulders, wincing as a dull throb bloomed beneath her ribs. One of them had landed a solid hit. She’d feel it tomorrow. But he didn’t need to know that.

Her breath stayed even. Her face didn’t flinch. Everything about her posture screamed neutral. Detached. Like she hadn’t just gone toe-to-toe with trained killers and come out limping.

Inside, though, her mind was already moving—fast. Cataloging movements. Faces. She might’ve ended up another cold case buried under a redacted report.

Her gaze swept the unconscious men scattered across the dock, then shifted to the man still standing. Unshaken. He hadn't even bled.

Her lips thinned, and she exhaled through her nose like a pressure valve easing off just enough.

“You talk a lot for someone who hides behind a mask,” she said coolly, her voice lined with dry dismissal. Not biting. Not rattled. Just unimpressed. "For a coward"

He took a step forward, casual. Like this was a conversation and not a debriefing over six unconscious bodies.

She stepped back.

The motion was instinctual, practiced which stopped him.

“So what now?” she asked, voice clipped, all business. “You prove I’m in over my head, throw some cryptic warning my way, and then what? I’m supposed to be desperate enough to grab whatever lifeline you dangle next?” She stared him down.

He huffed a quiet laugh, low and disarming. He shook his head like she’d just told him something ridiculous. Maybe she had.

“You really think that’s what this is?” he asked, voice steady and unshaken. There was no bite to it—just that maddening calm, like nothing she threw at him could scratch the surface.

He didn’t bristle at her pushback. Didn’t meet her defiance with his own. He just stood there—relaxed, unreadable, like he had all night to watch her try and spin this into something it wasn’t.

“Believe it or not, I’m not here to teach you humility.” He tilted his head, that same tilt she was starting to recognize. A tell. Something just shy of amusement. “That’s just a bonus.”

“Well,” she said, voice flat as glass, “you’re not very good at it.”

The words landed clean, sharp. She watched the flicker of amusement in his expression falter just slightly. Not enough for most people to notice. But she did.

“And for what it’s worth,” she added, her tone measured, almost bored, “you were in over your head too—before I stepped in.”

She let that settle. Didn’t blink.

“You’re fast, sure. But even you can’t be everywhere at once.”

She barely took a step when she saw it—that sudden stillness in him. A tilt of the head, just slight, like he’d caught something in the wind. A vibration she couldn’t hear, but he could.

His expression shifted instantly; the smirk gone.

“Get down,” he muttered.

Avery’s instincts flared. She turned, and a half-second later, the faint rumble of approaching boots echoed from deeper down the dock. Not one or two. More.

Lots more.

Already backing toward the warehouse wall as she glanced back trying to see.

“Six. Maybe seven,” He whispered. His voice was clipped, already calculating. “Different cadence. Heavier steps. Military pattern.”

She didn’t argue. She was already moving.

They slipped deep into the warehouse like shadows, disappearing into the rows of crates and forgotten machinery. The smell of oil and dust was heavier here, but the silence was worse—too still, too waiting.

Avery crouched behind a metal support beam, eyes scanning the dark. Daredevil crouched beside her, close enough that she could feel the shift in the air when he moved. “No shipment, no stash, no deal. It’s a trap” she whispered

He didn’t look towards her when he answered. “They’re here to kill you.”

“Who tipped you off?” he asked, his voice low but steady.

She didn’t answer right away. Her mind flipped back, “Son of a bitch,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. “We need to get the fuck out of here,” she said finally, her voice calm but edged with urgency. “There’s too many.”

He nodded once.

The footsteps were moving inside now. Closing in.

She exhaled through her nose, steadying herself. “Let’s move.”

Avery took point, her sidearm drawn low as she moved between stacked shipping crates and rusted shelving. Her steps were fast but silent, every movement deliberate. She didn’t hesitate—she couldn’t. The footsteps behind them weren’t just searching. They were coordinated. Daredevil stayed close, a half-step behind, listening. He tilted his head, catching the rhythm of boots against concrete, the subtle scrape of a rifle brushing metal. “Two by the north entrance. One on the catwalk above us. More coming in from the loading dock.” Every time she started to veer left, he’d stop her with a quiet, “Two that way. Wait,” then motion her toward a different path—always one step ahead. She hadn’t seen anyone. Hadn’t heard a damn thing. But he had. Somehow. Her eyes flicked to him; breath tight in her throat. She didn’t really have a choice but to listen. Avery glanced at the layout ahead—an old gantry ladder, a shadowed access corridor, and at the far end, a cracked emergency exit sign glowing faintly red. “That door lead anywhere?”

“Alley. Then rooftops,” he said.

“Then that’s our shot.”

They moved. Quick, precise. Avery kept her gun up, her breath steady, eyes scanning corners, reflections, movement. She paused at the base of the ladder.

“Catwalk guy?”

“Left side. Thirty feet. Watching the main floor.”

Avery moved without hesitation.

Like a shadow she moved fast behind the man—too close. Avery raised her gun—but didn’t shoot. Instead, she struck out, the butt of her weapon slamming hard into the side of the man’s head repeatedly as her arm wrapped around his neck.

He dropped like a stone.

She caught him mid-collapse, arms straining as she tried to lower his weight without a sound. But he was heavier than he looked—dead weight, and her balance was beat from earlier. Her breath hitched as his body started to slip—

Then another pair of hands was there.

Daredevil moved in silently, smoothly, catching the man from her grip. He eased him the rest of the way down with practiced ease, laying him on the cold floor without so much as a scuff. One breath, two—quiet. No one else seemed to have noticed.

They moved in sync now, neither speaking, just shadows slipping between crates and broken-down pallets. Every step calculated. Every breath held just long enough.

The exit loomed ahead—a rusted side door, half-swallowed by ivy and grime. Avery reached it first, checking the angle, the alley beyond. Clear.

She looked over her shoulder. Daredevil was already slowing to a stop, just a few paces behind her. He didn’t move to follow.

Then she slipped out the door, gone into the night without looking back.

By the time she hit the street, he was already gone.

[dragonmaiden39point5]

No Escape (1)

Been working on this for months, was a one shot but now it's not. Lol. As usual hope you enjoy.

All characters depicted are over the age of 18.

Summary: You grow tired of Bakugo's bad behavior and after 4 years as a couple, you make a run for it.

Katsuki Bakugo x Black!Reader

Darkfic. Stalking, humiliation, dub-con, mild Daddy!kink. Potentially some untagged triggers.

@palettesofrenaissance as requested I am tagging you on my first part!

The stars had abandoned the sky, leaving the night black as pitch. The bladed edge of the cold air sliced at your ashen skin as you shuffled through woods. Here amongst the silent, barren trees, you were safe-- Far from the disaster of turbulence that was your relationship.

Katsuki was not right for you, a fact that you realized all too late after you were already involved. He didn't come on super strong when he first asked you out; He honestly had behaved as if he could've cared less if you were interested. However, within weeks of that first date, he was blowing up your phone with calls and texts every second of the day. It was cute-- even endearing at first, but as the honeymoon phase ceased, it was beyond overbearing.

With no regard for when you were at work, he was ceaseless in his seemingly sudden obsession. When you finally did hang out, he was all over you in near desperation, yearning for your completely undivided attention. It felt like you were suffocating as he consistently crowded your space and cut out all of the people in your life that mattered. You're not even entirely sure when you moved in with him. More and more of your stuff just kept turning up at his house, until he 'convinced' you not to go back to your apartment.

The clingy attachment got worse after you yielded to the pressure of living with him. You weren't allowed to keep a code on your phone anymore and only hung out with people he knew personally (most of which looked as if they wanted to go into a rut when they saw you). These things weren't something you took quietly though. There were countless screaming matches and arguments, all of which ended with him taking advantage of your heightened emotions and fucking you stupid across the nearest surface or piece of furniture after you had given up and started crying (you weren't exactly proud of that fact).

The highest point of contention after you'd yielded everywhere else, had been your job. His parents died and left an unspeakable amount of trust-fund money, so he didn't work which (to him) meant you shouldn't either. Plus, with you being in real estate, he outright said that he didn't want you, "Dressing up to be surrounded by a bunch of low-life bastards." There was also, the fact that you could ride around sometimes one or two towns over for hours ignoring him-- which especially caused him grief.

His solution was to track your car, stalking your every move when you left the house and actively attempting to make you quit. At one point he'd slashed all four tires of your car while you showed a house so that of course, you had to call him to pick you up. A different time, you took a (male) client and his son out to lunch to show him what the local attractions were like, and you went outside to a kicked in windshield, as well as all 4 windows busted out. Not even the sideview mirrors were spared.

Your management team was able to turn a blind eye those times and let you lie and claim random acts of vandalism or mistaken identity, especially with all the love you got from clients and other customers alike. However, not to be defeated, Bakugo upped the ante and had his buddy from the police force send SWAT to a house that you were doing a walkthrough on. They kicked in the doors and windows with guns and helicopters claiming that they received an active shooter notice for the address. You had been scared shitless, that is until the SWAT team carried you out and you saw Iida suited up, looking completely unbothered despite the 'severity' of the situation. He actually lit a cigarette and subjected you to an entirely unnecessary, way-too-thorough body search behind one of the police cruisers. Seconds later a familiar orange mustang with orange rims drove by and you knew what was going on. Luckily, the police presence spared you from being fired, as management had believed there was real danger. (The event was breaking news and blocked traffic for hours).

With that one having backfired and you crying and throwing a fit, he bought you a dog to 'apologize' though he never actually said the words. He later proceeded to double down on arguments about you quitting your job and broke your phone. Of course he ended up replacing it with a fancier more expensive one-- But you soon realized that it had only the contacts of people that had earned his approval and a monitoring software.

It was never ending with him, but trying to leave or break up face to face only made him hold you hostage until you promised not to leave. After waking up handcuffed to the headboard the last time you tried that, you chose not to try it again.

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Meanwhile, hard work and dedication (and screaming matches with your boyfriend) afforded you the senior salesperson promotion, meaning you were one step from a sales management position. With this title under your belt, you could step into a leadership role with more freedom than before.

To build reputation and show management potential, you were given the chance to sell a house of your choice and then would go through a shadowing and training process, meaning you were about 6-8 months shy of your dream position if everything worked out okay.

You'd spotted the perfect property and bought it on behalf of the company. There hadn't been too much confidence in it due to its age compared to other homes in the area, but with the right renovations and staging, and a well advertised open house, buyers would flock; that much was certain.

Late nights, early mornings, a dozen gallons of coffee. There was nothing your heart desired more than for the success of this house-- the success of you. It would be perfect and even set a new standard for open house events within the company.

There were unfortunately several out of budget expenses, like hiring a caterer and setting up before and after photoshoots for the property. The cost of landscaping had gone over due to several rotted tree removals, and sod placement for quite a bit of the back and side yards. There was also no way you were going to fill in the inground pool, which would become a major selling point after fixing it's disgusting condition. Repiping, rewiring, new insulation, trash removal (it was previously a hoarder's house), and a pool remodel... Everyone warned you about taking on a foreclosure sight-unseen for your first solo reno, but in your excitement, you tended to be exceedingly ambitious and with no HOA there were no limits.

At this point your job was the only thing you had control over, the only thing that gave you relief. And as you nitpicked yourself to a perfectionist's standard, your boyfriend remained oddly quiet. He actually volunteered his own money so it didn't look to anyone that you had technically far exceeded the company budget. The words of encouragement he offered while you worked were foreign, but you appreciated not having to fight when you were so tired. He was acting all warm and supportive like everything mattered to him so much..

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The house had turned out incredibly. Inside and out, there was no sign of the safety hazard that it had been, only an amazing dwelling that would belong to a happy family, hopefully in the near future. Before leaving home, you checked that all of your equipment was fully charged and ready to go: Laptop, tablet, phone, and USB that contained all the photographers pictures and video edits of the newly revived property.

Bakugo had a prior engagement and would be at the grand opening of his friend Midoriya's gym (a timing overlap that was very intentional on your part), though he would be dropping you off to the open house. The ride was silent, but not due to the aftermath of a huge argument; it was because something was up with Bakugo. All of his body language read that he was on edge, frequently tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. He only behaved this way when there was something on his mind.

"You good, Kats? You look really tense."

He smiled gleefully before glancing your way with sharp red eyes. "I'm alright."

"Aight then." You shrugged. "Make the next right and the place is at the other end of the street, on the cor-"

"I know where it is."

"Of course you do." You sighed, throwing your hands up.

Pulling up to your destination a few minutes later, you got out of the car and Bakugo followed suit. Grabbing your bag for you, he stood on the sidewalk for a moment.

"Wow." He commented, admiring the property. "Way to turn this shithole around. Nice job."

"Uh, Thank you." You smirked, heat creeping up your cheeks. "You look surprised."

"Well, I haven't followed you in like a month. Been busy helping Deku with his shitty new hires."

You sighed, rolling your eyes. It wasn't like you didn't know that he did it, but you preferred he not mention the stalking.

Showing Bakugo around the inside, you wanted to make sure that everything was in place for guests. Design wise, it was perfect; Every accent wall on the first level of the house had the same pattern which became the theme for the furniture colors and pillows. The upstairs followed the same trend, just with a different color/pattern combination. The curtains for each level were in the respective opposite color of the accent walls-- But it was the little details that mattered, so you went from room to room spraying air freshener and placing a scented candle in each; it combatted the smell of recently dried paint. You also needed to sit out the gift bags that had your business card and number tucked within and set up the projector so that it linked to your laptop.

Bakugo was actually impressed and would've stayed to watch you all day (his own words) but he had to leave for Izuku's event. Meanwhile, the caterers had arrived and were putting together shrimp cocktails and hors d'oeuvres, in time for the early bird guests showing up.

It didn't take long before a steady stream of potential buyers filled the property. They were encouraged to mingle and look around on their own or join in as you gave a tour with details about the artwork on the walls, insulation, and the re-pipe/rewire. One of your assistants also helped you to do a live stream showing each room, while another managed the gift card raffle, and the third made sure that every single guest left with a gift bag.

The event went on for roughly 2.5 to 3 hours, which you were on your feet networking for the duration of. You'd picked up 4 more potential buyers for a few different properties after chatting up countless people, as well as several who wanted this one. A bidding war was most certainly on the horizon.

For everyone that stayed to the end, a film reel of before and after shots was assembled. You and your co-workers had the remaining people gather in the media room of the home, where the projector had been set up at. "Alrighty ladies and gentlemen! This will be the final act of our showing. We will put on display what each room looked like before the transformation, with side-by-side images recapping the final product you've seen here today-- The point of which is to highlight just how hard earned the beauty of this house is, and why it would be perfect to live and raise your beloved family in."

The video came on in clear, perfect hi-resolution, starting with a series of credits for all the companies involved in the renovation of the property (clean up, photography, landscaping, pool fix etc). In the meantime you slipped out of the room and down the hallway, heading to the mother-in-law suite on the front side of the house and closing the door. You wanted a hair and makeup touch-up before it was time to shake hands and say goodbye.

Pushing your blazer off and stepping out of your heels you went and opened the chest of drawers to pull out your tote bag. Out of habit, the first thing you did was grab your phone but strangely enough, there was only one text message from Katsuki awaiting you from about half an hour after the open house had started. "Made it."Was all it said. You hummed curiously, tossing it on the bed in favor of your makeup bag, flats, and spray bottle. It was severely, out of character for him, but you had to worry about closing out the evening.

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The audience sat politely through the first minute or two of the presentation. It consisted of the credentials and numbers for the separate business entities that collaborated on the house. Completely normal.

However--

Things took a turn for the worst just moments later after you stepped out.

The screen went black for about 5-10 seconds and the gruff voice of a male could be heard in the background. When the image on the screen resumed, it was of a man in peak physical condition from the chin down, proud erection sitting between toned thighs as he stroked it rapidly. There was a plain black band on his left ring finger with a diamond studded behemoth on the middle one. He had a sleeve of colorful tattoos and spider bite piercings under the right corner of his mouth ."I love these little tantrums you throw, Baby." He grunted through his teeth. "Gets me so fucken hard when you act like a spoiled brat..." He stopped stroking with his hand and began to thrust fiercely into it instead. "But no matter how mad you get..." He said, breathing ragged and labored, "You'll always belong to Daddy." He moaned, shooting his load straight up, allowing it to land on his incredible abs.

It felt like an eternity for those watching, but the clip was less than 20 seconds long. Some astounded viewers quickly vacated, while others lingered feigning disgust, gasps and whispers.

But not one of your coworkers-- the so-called 'work family' moved to stop it, even as the next clip started immediately.

This one was of the same man, face still obscured, but from the point of view of the woman he was on top of; you. The camera seemed to have been recording from just above your head and tilted downward, so your face wasn't showing either. It was likely placed in the headboard.

Length buried fully into you, with your legs wrapped around his waist, his usual tone was down to a gritty pur. "Shit girl... I fucking love when you act like this...You want Daddy to make you cum?"

Your hands ran up his arms as you pulled him down flush against you. "Yes please.." you whimpered from beneath him.

"Louder." He hissed biting your neck.

"--Yes, please Daddy! Make me cum!"

"Hehehe...Of course.." He pulled completely out for a moment and you began to protest.

"Wait, please, I--" you whined, before he soothed you:

"It's alright Baby Girl, just hold on."

Pushing your knees up to your chest so that your ankles were on his shoulders and getting into a kneeling position, he sunk into your tight pussy from a new angle-- both of you groaning unified bliss. Suddenly, his pace was fast, breathing labored as he fucked into your wet hole.

That's what you saw when you were finally coming back from your bathroom break-- just in time to look down the corridor that opened up into the media room and see yourself squealing in delight as you squirted all over your boyfriend.

It was so astonishing you stopped dead in your tracks, staring confusedly down the hallway for a minute as you tried to figure out what you were seeing and why. A vicious pang of sadness struck your heart as tears began to ruin your freshly redone make-up.

Meanwhile, a third clip started-- This one with you standing, facing the camera from the neck down, with Bakugo sitting behind you on the edge of the bed. There could've been plausible deniability that this wasn't you, that this was a data breach of some sort and the computer had been hacked-- but right there, dangling between your gorgeous bouncing titties-- was the necklace that currently adorned you. It was too distinctive, (a diamond studded hand-grenade with a flash behind it, engraved with the date you and Bakugo met) and you wore it every day.

Less than 2 minutes of footage, had effectively ruined your entire professional life.

Had you not been afraid of someone keeping or distributing this imagery, you would've marched right out of the front door and never looked back. Instead, you dragged your feet the rest of the way down the hall into a room full of scornful sneers from colleagues, and horny perverts that didn't care to avert their eyes from the video of you getting fucked.

It looked too good; with him having pulled you back on to his lap and lifted your legs up. The view of how accepting your tight cunt was of such a big dick would live forever with these people, partnered with the sound of your moans as your pussy was filled with cum.

You slammed the laptop shut and snatched it free from the cords of the projector, numbly walking out of the room to get your bag and go. After all of the measures that were taken to keep something like this from happening, it still ended up being a disaster. The laptop that you were using was at least 6 years old. You kept it as messy as possible, with file folders saved across the home screen and the taskbar full of miscellaneous interests. It wasn't synced to any accounts, all apps that weren't games were deactivated for the most part. No Docs, no Cloud, no Adobe suite. Just plain PowerPoint, which was over a decade old at this point. You wracked your brain, trying to figure it out; Where had you gone wrong? How did Katsuki even manage this!?

Heading down the walkway, the orange monstrosity that he drove was parked on the sidewalk waiting for you. The negative emotions within you undulated like snakes in a pit. You slammed the car door as you got in and didn't spare him a glance.

He didn't react, other than the smirk that he forced himself to suppress, expecting a blow-up any minute but it never came. Instead, you cried silently. The tears just started pouring down your face as you stared straight ahead. Immediately he felt a wash of guilt. He hated when you cried but you really forced his hand; You liked to go to work and pretend he didn't exist, like you were single and work was your everything. So it was your own fault. Still, he would forgive you with no hesitation as soon as you shed a tear.

"How?" You asked, voice low, still not looking at him.

"I switched the videos when you dozed off last night...You left everything open."

You didn't bother to respond, a massive sob coming from you instead as tears kept coming.

Bakugo was certain that he had never seen anyone cry like that; almost completely silently with no noise other than the occasional sniff and nose wipe with a handkerchief. Definitely a far departure from your usual. You winced when he rested his hand on your thigh but otherwise did not protest.

"Kats, I'm tired. Please head home, I've been on my feet all day."

"Uh, yeah." He didn't know how to respond.

"Thank you."

The rest of the ride was silent. You had screamed, shouted, and broken things more times than you could count and at this point, you just didn't have the energy to do that. Tired and angry for sure, but at the core of it all you were sad. That he could do such hateful things. That he could care less about what you wanted for yourself. That he would be so unnecessarily cruel, while still claiming to love you.

This was the last straw.

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For a few months, you plotted and played your role. If you wanted to go somewhere, you asked him to bring you. You wore overly revealing clothes and climbed all over him in public. You stopped using his name, referring to him exclusively as Daddy no matter who was around. You would initiate sex, begging him to fuck you; beg to fuck him. You even took to sending him video and pictures of you playing with yourself when he left you at home, sometimes in his oversized clothes, other times nothing at all-- (which would make him come back much faster, if he could help it). You really made him feel his victory.

Kats was too busy loving that you didn't resist him anymore and was all too eager to have you all to himself; You, he, and the dog had been to 5 countries in the three months since. It was easy to get swept up in the gifts and vacations (and mind-blowing orgasms) and forget he was something that you needed to get away from, since he had been absolutely perfect since you started acting the way he wanted. You almost felt bad about your brewing plot to leave.

Well, it actually wasn't much of a plot, you were you going to take a few thousand out of his home safe, get the dog, and ghost. He was just too unstable and insecure, and at this point it was clear that he could only behave properly when you were 'obedient'.

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The sole opportunity to leave came with the passing of another month. When he wasn't traveling, Bakugo habitually visited his parents' headstones on the Saturday of every third weekend, at sunset. It was the absolute only time that he left you devoid of incessant phone calls, messages, and his suffocating presence. A cloud of guilt shrouded the decision to leave at such a time... But you'd never know peace if you didn't. What other choice did you have? You had learned from the last several times you attempted to break up with him that it would only intensify his crazy.

When he left that evening, you waited until receiving the text that he was there to make your move. You left absolutely everything behind other than Thunder with his dogfood and cash from Bakugo's safe-- On foot, hence lurking through the woods that started on the edge of the property instead of taking a main road. The location of motion cameras on the edge of the acreage that surrounded the house were something that you had carefully mapped out the boundaries of-- And after almost 4 years, you knew where they were by heart.

There was also a small plan that was put into play as a distraction; He always took the smaller, more low key of the cars when visiting the cemetery. In turn, you sent his chef to a store over an hour in the opposite direction of where you were going, in his easy to spot orange car.

It would be hours before he knew you were gone...

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[inkwingsinc]

bit my gun with my black-gold gums by InkwingsInc

~small edit to celebrate chapter 26, posting soon~

Find the story here on AO3

[sickxcute]

New fic posted!!

[kngrose]

𝐒𝐎, 𝐃𝐎 𝐈 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐌?

chapter one: in another life.

Life with your husband is perfect. But when subtle changes start to surface, the warmth you once knew starts to feel different. The man you love is still by your side devoted as ever. But beneath the surface, something isn’t right. And deep down, you’re afraid to ask why.

CW: murder, stalking, general obsessive behaviors, self-deprecating ideologies, implied masturbation and voyeurism

series masterlist 𒌐 prologue 𒌐 chapter two

𒌐

Mornings were always the same.

Miguel arrived at the lab just past six. Earlier, if he couldn’t sleep, which was often. He preferred the quiet. The hum of the generators, the faint blue glow of the monitors, the sterile chill of air that hadn’t yet been touched by anyone else.

The lab recognized his retinal scan before the door finished sliding open. Lights blinked awake in waves as he stepped inside. One of the most advanced research facilities in the known multiverse, and still, it reeked of disinfectant and artificial air.

Screens lit up along the walls as he approached; dim blue holograms pulsing with quantum reads, dimensional overlays, real-time feeds from dozens of Earths’ he no longer cared to memorize. Routine had become second nature. Badge swipe. System diagnostics. Field report reviews. His fingers moved on instinct, pulling up simulations, patching glitches, recalibrating tech. He didn’t speak much during the day unless necessary, and no one questioned it. They knew better.

It was a comfortable rhythm. Efficient. Controlled.

On paper, his life was structured. Honorable, even. He was doing good work. Important work.

But he was growing tired.

He swiped through reports with short, impatient flicks of his fingers. Another ripple in Earth-142’s continuity. Another code collapse in 615. Another breech warning from 217 that someone else could deal with.

Lyla chimed, interrupting his spiral.

“You’ve been awake for forty-two hours, Miguel.”

He ignored it, continue to flic through the countless tabs. She’d said that yesterday too. There were no windows in his lab. He found it to be too much of a distraction, all the hustle and bustle of the city. He never noticed when the morning turned into the afternoon. Or the afternoon into the evening.

It started the way most anomalies did; quiet, buried in the noise.

Miguel scanned through a cluster of new dimensional activity flagged overnight. Dozens of variants popped up across the system: some familiar, some barely registering on baseline parameters. Most of them were garbage. Nothing threatening, nothing useful.

He pulled up a map of the multiversal stream, tabbing through familiar patterns, reconfirming clean pockets, filtering red zones. His fingers hesitated over a blip; Earth 529-B.

Not flagged. Not marked. Just a clean little speck, sitting between threads. Stable. Normal. He tapped into it out of habbit more than interest.

The static cleared, the screen refreshed.

And there he was.

It wasn’t unusual, but it was uncommon. It wasn’t everyday he strolled across variants of himself, and he could never swallow the curiosity the bubbled inside him when he did.

Miguel stared, unblinking, at the version of himself that looked, at first glance, completely unremarkable.

No suit. No enhancements. No visible signs of trauma. He looked… rested. A few years softer in the face. A slower gait. Comfortable.

He didn’t even notice her at first. The angle was off—one of the auxiliary spider-bots had perched too far back, catching a wide-angle view of a small living room. Evening light spilling through gauzy curtains, a girlish coffee mug left out. Slippers by the couch. The hum of a world too still to be dangerous.

Then the door opened.

She stepped into frame like a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Laughing at something off-screen. Hair damp from a shower. No makeup. Soft. Barefoot. She carried a bowl of popcorn and sat beside the other Miguel like she’d done it a thousand times. Like her body knew exactly how to fit against his.

Miguel blinked.

She reached up without looking, fingers sliding into his alternates hair. Lazy affection. Thoughtless, practiced tenderness. She murmured something, and he smiled—this slow, sleepy kind of grin—and kissed the side of her head like it was second nature.

Miguel sat there, stone-still in the flickering dark of his lab, watching as this version of himself leaned back on the couch with the woman wrapped around him like gravity. They didn’t do anything extraordinary. They talked, teased each other. She stole a bite of his food, and he let her.

They looked happy.

Not that fragile, pretend kind of happiness people chase with noise and distraction. But the real kind. The quiet kind. The kind you build in slow, uneven steps until one day you look around and realize you’re home.

He shut the feed.

Forcefully.

The screen blinked black, and he sat back in the chair like the screen had burned him.

It doesn’t matter.

It’s not his life. Not his problem.

There were reports to file. Patrol routes to coordinate. A dimensional rift opening up three sectors down. And of course; his very own city that needs him.

He suited up without looking at his reflection. The suit gripped his spine, sealed across his ribs. A perfect fit. Calibrated to his exact vitals, responding to every breath and shift of weight. It felt like a second skin—one he hadn’t taken off in years, even when he wasn’t wearing it.

The lab faded behind him. The city opened up.

Night hadn’t fully settled yet. The sky above Nueva York was still bleeding orange and violet, city lights flickering to life like neurons firing across metal bones. Below, the world moved. Hovercars speeding between towers, neon bleeding across concrete, every surface alive with motion.

Miguel moved through it all like a ghost.

One webline shot clean across the gap between buildings—his body followed, weightless for half a second before momentum caught him and flung him forward again. He landed in a crouch on a vertical wall, pushed off, flipped into a dive.

The wind tore past him.

It always felt like this; violent, cold, almost too loud to think.

Perfect.

Because thinking meant remembering.

And tonight, he didn’t want to remember her face.

So he buried himself in the city’s demands.

A robbery in Sector 4. He took down four armed thieves in under thirty seconds. Disarmed, webbed, dropped them off for enforcement to collect without a word. One tried to run. He didn’t get far.

A dimensional disturbance near the lower market—just a flicker, a pressure glitch from a collapsing pocketverse. Miguel stabilized it with two drones and a pulse anchor. The rift spat static and tried to pull him in. It failed.

He helped clear a mag-lift derailment after that. A family had been trapped in the last car, one kid clutching a holographic plush and shaking so hard her fingers were white. Miguel ripped the door off with one hand, pulled them out with the other. The parents thanked him. The child cried.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t stay long enough to make it awkward.

He was gone before they’d stopped blinking.

It went like that for hours.

Problem after problem. Crisis after crisis.

And through all of it, the same feeling followed him like a shadow.

Emptiness.

It had been easy before. Easier, at least. You could survive anything if you gave enough of yourself to the work. You could build armor out of purpose. Convince yourself that saving the world meant more than having one of your own.

But now he’d seen it.

What his world could’ve been.

Miguel landed hard on the edge of a rooftop. The ledge cracked beneath his boots. His heart thudded behind his ribs. Not from exertion, but from something else. Something bitter.

The sky had gone dark. The city pulsed below. The wind was sharp, stinging across his exposed jaw.

He stayed there a while.

Looking.

But there was nothing to see.

Just lights. Just noise. Just another night in the city that never looked up.

He didn’t want to look out at the city anymore. He knew every corner of it. Knew how the people screamed when they were afraid and smiled when they thought someone else would save them.

He was always saving them.

The world called him a hero. But in every version of the world that mattered, he was alone. He knew what it meant to save a city. But not what it felt like to be missed when he was late for dinner.

Eventually, he made his way home.

He disengaged his suit and it peeled off like skin, slow and mechanical, then stepped into the low light of the adjoining room. The walls were bare. The furniture was functional. The kind of space meant to be lived in by someone too busy to live at all.

He ate standing at the kitchen counter—a protein bar, coffee, silence. No music. No laughter. No one calling from the next room asking if he remembered the groceries. No messages waiting on his communicator unless they were urgent.

They always were.

It crossed his mind then; that this wasn’t a home. It was a holding cell.

A place to sleep, to recharge. To rot.

He exhaled through his nose.

He told himself it would be the last time.

Just a quick look and he’d forget all about it entirely.

Just some… surveillance for work.

Miguel tapped in the stream manually again; Earth-529-B. He let the image unfold across his home monitor. No spider activity. No anomaly. Just an ambient feed. Quiet, domestic, uneventful.

She was in the kitchen this time. Hair pulled back. Pink slippers. Humming under her breath as she moved between cupboards, making something warm. The spider-bot’s proximity sensors recognized cinnamon and he could almost imagine it. The weight of it in the air. The heat. Her presence.

His other self walked in halfway through. Said something low. She grinned.

It was so small. So stupid. But it pulled at something sharp inside his chest.

The sound of her voice softened when she spoke to him.

The way she leaned into him without thinking. The way he knew where the mugs were without looking. The way she filled the silence, and the silence welcomed it.

Miguel watched his variant press a kiss to the back of her neck before settling at the table with a datapad. Her hand rested briefly on his shoulder as she passed.

Natural.

Unremarkable.

Unfair.

It hit him in the chest like a falling building.

Because this Miguel—the one on the screen—wasn’t saving the world. Wasn’t wearing a mask. He wasn’t even tired. He was just loved. Fully. Softly. Without having to earn it.

And worse?

He looked like he deserved it.

Miguel scrubbed a hand down his face, throat tight. He should’ve looked away, closed the feed and labeled it as irrelevant. But his fingers hovered over the controls, frozen.

Her laugh looped back. The way she nudged the other Miguel’s knee. The way her eyes lit up when she teased him. She said his name, not just like it was familiar, but like it was sacred.

She was laughing at something his alternate said. Miguel replayed the footage ten times before he realized what it was that unsettled him—he wasn’t trying to be funny. She just loved him that way.

He sat back in his chair, the glow of the feed washing pale across his face. His apartment around him was still. Stark. Quiet. No warmth. No scent. Just glass, metal, and silence. The screens on the far wall dimmed automatically, sensing his stillness.

There was a moment where he could’ve shut it off again.

But he didn’t.

He leaned forward instead.

Zoomed the image slightly. Enhanced the audio.

She was talking about her day, rambling about something she read. Her mug clinked softly on the counter as she turned to lean on it, still facing her Miguel. Still smiling.

He doesn’t deserve that.

The thought came sudden. Fierce.

Miguel frowned.

He pulled up another data set beside the stream, basic file info on the variant. Not a Spider-Man. No mutations. Same genetic base, but untouched. Unchanged. The kind of man who never clawed his way through blood and glass to survive.

So why does he get this?

He wasn’t extraordinary. And yet everything around him felt like it had meaning. Including her.

His jaw tensed. He watched them a moment longer, then minimized the screen.

Didn’t close it. Just… minimized.

He’d definitely seen it.

A life he could’ve had. A version of himself that hadn’t burned everything down to be a hero. A woman who loved him for reasons he couldn’t understand; because this Miguel didn’t need to be impressive. He was just hers.

And Miguel wanted that.

He just didn’t know what to do about it yet.

𒌐

He didn’t mean to make it a habit.

It just happened.

Miguel started waking up earlier than usual. Not because of alarms or patrol rotations. Not because the city needed saving.

Because she was making breakfast at 6:12 a.m. on Earth 529-B and he wanted to be more than prepared to eat with her.

He memorized the time. Memorized the robe she wore. The way her hair was always half-wet from the shower. The color of her socks, mismatched. The soft rasp of her voice when she asked the other Miguel what he wanted in his coffee, even though she already knew.

She knew everything about him. All his tells. His rhythms. His moods. And Miguel watched it all.

The moment he stepped into the lab—before diagnostics, before reports, before even Lyla’s first dry-witted greeting—he pulled up the feed. Habitual now, like muscle memory.

The screen blinked to life in the quiet, low light of the lab. No one else around yet. Just him. Her. Him.

He was sitting at the breakfast table reading something on a tablet. She was making eggs. Plain, domestic.

Miguel stared.

She always cooked the eggs the same way. Over medium, yolk just barely soft. He’d watched her flip them with a practiced hand, adding a pinch of seasoning, sliding them onto a ceramic plate that didn’t match the rest of the dishes. His alternate liked toast with honey, no butter. Coffee. Black, no sugar.

He made note of it without meaning to.

She watched with fond eyes as he began to dig in.

Miguel sat at his console, empty stomach curled in on itself, and watched the version of himself eat breakfast with a woman who would never look at him like that.

Except… she did. Didn’t she?

In the feed. She smiled at him.

Just… not him.

He realized he’d been leaning forward, chin balanced in one hand, watching like it was a memory. Something half-remembered. Something his.

When Lyla flickered into view, mid-sentence, he shut the feed off too fast.

“…You good?” she blinked, cocking her digital head, a pixelated brow lifting. “You didn’t even run the scans. That’s unlike you.”

“I was thinking,” he said.

“Uh-huh. About what?”

He didn’t answer.

Just turned away, pulled up system diagnostics, and dove headfirst into the next distraction.

He had started telling himself it was observation. Research. That he needed to understand the variables. How a version of himself had ended up like that. Soft. Loved. Whole.

But the truth was ugly. And it sat heavy under his skin.

He watched because he was starving.

He didn’t stop thinking about it.

Later that night, after patrol, after another series of city-saving acts that left him more bruised and empty than fulfilled, he stood in front of his bathroom mirror. His hair was still damp from the rain. He looked at himself for a long time.

Then he shrugged into an old t-shirt.

Not his usual black compression gear. Not the suit. Just a soft, worn thing he hadn’t touched in years. Something he’d seen the other Miguel wear. Something she’d smiled at once and said looked “comfy.”

He didn’t even remember owning it until he tore through storage earlier that week.

Now it was the only thing he wanted to wear.

He stood there for a while, studying his reflection. Adjusting the way he held his shoulders. Softening his mouth. Lowering his chin. Trying to remember exactly how the other him looked when she kissed his cheek that morning.

He tried it.

Tilted his head the same way. Smiled.

It felt wrong. Mechanical... hollow. Like wearing someone else’s skin.

But somehow, it felt right.

He didn’t know which one scared him more.

Eventually, he moved to the kitchen. Made himself toast with honey. No butter. Coffee. Black, no sugar. Just to know what it tasted like. Just to feel what he felt.

He sat at the counter, chewing slowly.

It tasted like nothing.

He finished it anyway.

𒌐

It was late when he watched again.

She was sitting on the floor this time, curled up beside the coffee table, scribbling notes in a book with a pencil tucked behind one ear. Her hair was messy, pulled up lazily. She was in socks and an oversized hoodie. One of his old ones—his variant’s, technically.

Miguel stared at her for a long time.

She didn’t do anything special. She scratched her head. Took a sip of tea. Pushed some stray hairs out of her eyes.

But for a moment, he could pretend. Pretend that she was just… there. With him. That he was in that apartment instead. That he could walk over and kneel beside her and ask what she was working on. That her soft expression was meant for him.

Miguel didn’t blink.

He could watch her like this for hours. No performance. No pretense. Just her in the quiet. Her existing. Breathing. It made him feel like there was still time to change everything. Like he could still be good.

But then, he heard the door.

Saw it swing open in the background.

And just like that; she smiled.

Her eyes lit up. Her entire posture changed.

The other Miguel walked in, pulling his jacket off. Tossed keys in a bowl by the wall. Said something that made her smile sweetly—he couldn’t hear what it was. But Miguel didn’t need it.

He saw it. Felt it. That subtle shift. That warmth.

The moment shattered.

It was no longer hers. No longer theirs.

The man, his alternate, walked up behind her and bent down to kiss her cheek. She tilted her head into the touch without thinking. She reached back and pulled him down beside her.

It was his again. His double’s. The man who walked through the door and made her smile like nothing else mattered. Who dropped a kiss to her cheek without thinking. Who made it look so easy. Effortless.

Like it wasn’t a miracle every time she looked up and smiled at him.

Miguel’s jaw clenched.

He watched them settle into the couch together, side by side like puzzle pieces. She laid her head on his shoulder, and he curled his fingers into hers.

It should’ve felt romantic. Instead, it felt like a knife.

Miguel leaned closer to the screen.

He watched the way the other him touched her; easy, like it came naturally. The kind of ease that was earned over years. That couldn’t be duplicated or hacked or built.

That kind of intimacy had to be lived.

It made something sharp twist in his chest.

Miguel sat back slowly in his chair, arms crossed tight over his chest, eyes never leaving the screen.

In that moment, he stopped watching like an admirer.

He started studying like a thief.

𒌐

Miguel stood at the edge of his console, fingers resting on the metal rim, eyes locked on the monitor like it was a lifeline.

The man on the screen was getting dressed.

Simple button-down. Rolled sleeves. Loose slacks. He adjusted the collar, checked his watch. Normal. Human. Soft in all the ways Miguel had learned not to be.

He took a mental note. Third time this week he’d seen him choose light blue. Casual neutrals. No sharp edges, no commanding presence. Just… approachable. Like he never had to prove anything to anyone.

Miguel pulled the video feed back ten minutes. Watched it again.

And again.

Watched how he brushed his hair back with one hand while balancing a cup of coffee in the other. How he kissed her forehead in passing like it was nothing. How he laughed—real, full, and easy.

He didn’t just observe anymore. He documented. He had files now. Data folders.

“M. O’Hara – Earth 529-B”

Subcategories: Daily Routine. Speech Patterns. Work Habits. Dietary Preferences. Social Relationships.

He took note of everything.

His walk; slower, more relaxed.

His voice; slightly lower, but warmer in tone.

The way he always paused before answering a question, like he cared about getting it right. Like he was thinking not just about what to say, but how it would make her feel.

It infuriated Miguel.

And still, he watched.

He studied the man’s commute.

Mapped his route through the city. The exact time he left the house. The bakery he stopped at every Thursday. The woman who waved at him from the florist shop on Main. The coworkers he chatted with at the office. Their names. Faces. Jokes.

Every relationship cataloged. Every line of familiarity between them recorded.

There was a man named Elias he seemed close with. Taller. Sharp sense of humor. They got lunch together sometimes. Miguel watched himself make him laugh once. Saw the alternate Miguel bump his shoulder and mouth something like, “don’t even try it.”

He paused the feed there. Rewatched it.

That face he made. That casual confidence.

Miguel tilted his head. Tried to replicate it in the dark, reflection faint in the black of the monitor.

It didn’t look the same.

Then there were his hobbies.

Books he bought. Music he listened to. Shows she made him watch and he actually did—and liked. He remembered one night watching the variant clean the kitchen while humming something quiet, something old and half-Spanish. Something Miguel hadn’t heard since he was a boy.

It hurt more than it should have.

He made a note of it anyway.

Food preferences. His caffeine intake. The way he always took off his shoes before stepping inside the door. The way he sat with her on the couch, never on the other end, always close, always touching.

He memorized it. Not because he wanted to be like him. Because he wanted to be better.

Most disturbing of all was how naturally he slipped into it. The mimicry. The daily rehearsals.

He started adjusting his posture. Relaxing the tension in his shoulders. Practicing speech inflections alone in his apartment. Saying the same phrases over and over until he could say them like him.

He hated how easily it came to him. Like he’d always been waiting for an excuse.

The only thing he couldn’t replicate was the light in his eyes.Because that man, his alternate, had never seen what he’d seen.

He hadn’t lived in blood. He hadn’t watched whole worlds collapse. He hadn’t woken up every morning with no one.

That man got to live softly. Easily.

Loved.

𒌐

Miguel pulled the hood low over his forehead, the soft fabric shadowing his eyes, and tugged the mask up over his nose. The chill of the morning air bit at the exposed skin of his neck as he stepped out onto the sidewalk, his breath a faint cloud dissolving in front of him. The world smelled sharp with the scent of damp pavement and brewing coffee from nearby cafés.

For months he’d been trapped behind glass and glowing screens, a ghost tethered to a life he only observed from a distance. Watching her laugh, watching her move—never close enough to feel the warmth of her presence, never close enough to breathe the same air.

This isn’t enough. The thought clenched his chest like a vice.

He wanted to reach out. Not just through pixels, not just through data feeds—but to actually see her. To witness the small, unguarded moments. The way sunlight caught in her hair, the curve of her smile when she thought no one was watching, the softness in her eyes when she looked at the world with quiet hope.

So he came here.

A quiet observer cloaked in the mundane. A man in a hoodie and mask, drifting like a shadow through her world.

At the corner café, he lingered just out of sight. She was there, her fingers wrapped around a steaming cup, eyes closed for a moment as if savoring a secret no one else could touch. His heart ached with the ache of absence, the desperate hunger to cross the divide.

Later, the grocery aisles became his sanctuary and his prison. He moved beside her, unseen, his eyes tracing the gentle arc of her movements, the way she paused to read a label, the faint glimmer in her eye when she caught sight of something familiar. Every small detail seared into his memory.

On the train, he shifted his stance, changed his coat, lowered his cap. Every time she boarded, his pulse quickened. Her presence was a balm and a torment all at once. He watched her lose herself in thought, the faintest crease of worry lining her brow, the delicate sigh she let out when the train rattled on.

And then; the collision.

Sudden and raw.

Their bodies met in a careless stumble. Papers scattered like startled birds. She looked up, eyes wide, catching his gaze through the dark mask.

For a heartbeat, the world fell away.

Her voice, soft and real, broke through the haze.

“I’m so sorry!”

His voice was a rasp, barely more than a whisper.

“Sorry.”

Her eyes searched his, a flicker of recognition maybe—or just curiosity—before she stepped back, melting into the crowd. He stood frozen, heart pounding, breath shallow, the ache of longing crashing over him like a wave.

But she was already gone.

And he was left with nothing but the hollow echo of a moment that almost was.

Miguel told himself he wouldn’t do it again.

One time. Just once. Just to see her in real life, to breathe the same air. That was the lie he fed himself the first time he crossed over.

But he did it again.

And again.

And again.

He told himself it was harmless. A passing shadow, a phantom in the periphery of her day. No interaction. No interference. Just… presence. Just proximity. Just proof that she was real.

The next time was at the park.

She sat alone beneath a canopy of trees, the late afternoon sun catching in the strands of her hair, turning them gold. A book rested in her lap, pages fluttering gently in the breeze. Every few minutes she looked up. At the sky, at passing strangers, at the world as if she was quietly falling in love with it all over again.

Miguel sat across the path, half-hidden by shadows and the angle of his hood. Every breath he took felt like a sin.

She looked beautiful. Unbearably so. In a way that made his ribs ache. The kind of beauty that asked for nothing and gave everything. She wasn’t performing for anyone. She was just being. And it devastated him.

He couldn’t look away.

Her expression shifted with the story she read; smiling faintly at one page, frowning at another. She bit her lip absently, unaware she was being watched. And Miguel, who had seen thousands of worlds, who had bent time and science to his will, who had saved entire cities—felt like a boy with his face pressed to glass, begging for something he never had the courage to ask for.

Why, when he was the better one. Smarter. Stronger. Sharper. He had built everything from nothing. Sacrificed. Bled. Lost. He deserved—

No.

He didn’t deserve her.

No one did.

But he wanted her. In the deepest, most ruinous way a man could want someone. Not just her smile. Not just her voice. But the quiet of her presence. The safety. The soft understanding in her eyes when she looked at him like she saw the real version of him—even if it wasn’t him at all.

Later that week, he followed her through a bookstore. She drifted between shelves, fingers dancing across spines like they were sacred. She stopped in front of a display and tilted her head, studying a cover, her lips moving softly as she read the blurb.

He imagined walking up beside her, leaning in close, asking if she’d recommend it. He could almost feel the warmth of her shoulder beside his.

But he didn’t move.

He just watched.

And when she left, he followed her out into the dusk, vanishing into the crowd like a secret.

Each time, it became harder to leave. Harder to remind himself that this wasn’t his life.

But each time, he told himself the same thing.

Just one more glimpse. Just one more moment.

Just one more lie.

And still, it was never enough.

𒌐

He holds the door open for an old man, says something with a soft smile, just loud enough for the man to hear, quiet enough not to draw attention. The man laughs. Claps him on the back. Says something else as they part ways.

Of course. Of course he’s friendly.

Miguel watches from the edge of the sidewalk, tucked behind a half-wall of vines and brick. Close enough to hear the echo of the exchange, even if not the words.

The alternate walks with unhurried steps, shoulders relaxed, hands tucked into the pockets of a worn jacket. Not stiff. Not guarded. Not anxious.

Just comfortable.

At ease in his body. In his place in the world.

Miguel’s mouth is dry. He stares, unblinking.

There’s nothing performative about the way the man greets people. No need to impress. No show.

He’s just… good.

And it’s not the loud kind of good. It’s not grand or noble or remarkable. It’s quiet. In the way he stops to help a kid reattach a fallen shoelace. In the way he slows his pace to walk beside someone older. In the way he speaks; low and steady, with warmth in his voice like there’s never any rush.

He’s the kind of person people relax around.

The kind who makes the world feel safer just by existing in it.

And Miguel hates him for it.

He can’t even explain why, not in a way that makes sense.

Because how do you hate a man who’s done nothing wrong?

Who’s never hurt you, never lied, never cheated his way ahead?

You don’t.

You resent him. Quietly. Fiercely.

The man hasn’t done anything wrong. That’s what makes it worse. He’s just… good at being himself.

Good in the ways Miguel never was.

He doesn’t talk too much, but people listen when he does. He doesn’t demand space, but people make room for him anyway. He doesn’t need to be loud, because people lean in when he speaks.

He connects. Effortlessly.

Miguel watches him pause to greet someone across the street. A familiar face. A light laugh. A hand briefly on the other man’s shoulder. Friendly. Natural. There’s nothing guarded in his eyes, no second-guessing behind his expressions.

It’s like he was made to be liked.

He is softness. And that softness is winning.

People smile at him on instinct. Dogs trail him with their tails wagging. Children glance up and then don’t look away. He doesn’t have to try.

And Miguel? He has spent his whole life trying.

Trying to be better. Trying to be enough. Trying to keep from slipping into the part of himself that sees everything as threat or strategy or obligation.

And still, this man… this version of him… lives with ease. With love. With connection.

Like it was simple.

Miguel turns away, heat crawling up the back of his neck.

It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair.

It’s not fair that this man gets to be seen as kind, as safe, as good—

When he’s done nothing to earn it.

He’s not pretending. That’s the problem.

He’s not some polished mask Miguel can tear off. He’s real. And every inch of that truth burns. Because it means Miguel is not the best version of himself. Not the one that got it right.

He’s just the one who’s watching.

Wanting.

And waiting.

𒌐

The lights in the lab were low.

Too low for work.

But this wasn’t work.

The feed played silently. No sound, no alerts, no Lyla. Just her, wrapped in steam, behind fogged glass that barely concealed anything. She moved with ease, arms raised as she dragged wet fingers through her hair, and he watched—staring like a man starved.

She was showering.

It was mundane. Private, normal. But God, that made it worse. Her movements were slow, absentminded. She was massaging conditioner into her scalp, neck tilted just slightly as the water ran down her back in rivulets.

“God, you’re beautiful.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her like this. It wasn’t even the first time today. He’d memorized the curves of her spine, the tilt of her neck, the little breaths she took when the water got too hot and made her shiver. It was a ritual now. One he had no right to, but couldn’t stop repeating.

Miguel sat back in his chair, legs spread wide, hands resting on his thighs like anchors holding him in place. The screen before him glowed dimly— soft, intimate. A warm yellow hue spilled across the feed, and steam drifted along the lens like a curtain being drawn.

And she had no idea she was being watched.

He knew it was wrong. Knew it with the kind of clarity that should have stopped him.

But his hand hovered near his waistband anyway.

His breath had started to deepen, not quite heavy yet, but close. Like something was pulling at the edge of him. Drawing him in. The intimacy of it. The innocence. The quiet of her movements. She was humming and he could almost feel it vibrating in his chest like something secret, something not meant for him but taken anyway.

He watched the water slide down her collarbone, the way her lips parted as she sighed. His breathing slowed, then hitched. The warmth in his gut bloomed into something heavier. Hungrier. His hand twitched at his thigh.

I’d treat you so well.

The thought struck him suddenly. Loud. Undeniable.

He shuddered as he palmed himself through his pants.

“Hey, Miguel?” Lyla’s voice snapped into the room like a live wire.

Miguel flinched.

Hard.

He sat bolt upright, breath caught, the moment shattered like glass beneath a boot. His screen scrambled. The feed cut out. Hands clenched into fists at his sides, jaw tight, chest rising and falling like he’d just been caught mid-crime.

Lyla’s projection hovered in the air beside him, glitching slightly as if sensing the tension. She paused, blinking at his sudden shift.

“Uh… you okay?” Her voice was light, but her tone was cautious.

Miguel didn’t move. His eyes stayed forward, cold, burning.

“System flagged some unauthorized data feeds. From an untracked Earth,” she added, slower this time. “Miguel, you’re pulling visual from a domestic node… in a private residence. That’s—”

“Turn off.” His voice cracked out like a gunshot.

Lyla hesitated. “Miguel… just tell me what you’re—”

“I said turn the fuck off.” His head whipped toward her, eyes blazing.

Lyla disappeared. No protest. No glitchy sign-off.

Silence returned to the room.

Miguel sat back slowly, breath still jagged, shame licking at the edge of his consciousness but unable to cut deep enough to matter. Not anymore. Not when it came to her.

His screen stayed dark for a long time.

But not forever.

Never forever.

𒌐

It had been months.

Too many, maybe. But he stopped keeping track a long time ago. Somewhere along the line, slipping into her world became less like a trespass and more like… returning. Like syncing with something he was always meant to be part of.

He’d perfected it; watching her from just far enough, never close enough to distort the image. She didn’t know he was there, and that made it easier to pretend she could know him. That if things were different, if everything hadn’t splintered when it did, she’d look at him the same way she looked at the man she thought was Miguel.

The man who wasn’t him.

At first, he hated that version of himself in a dull, detached kind of way. A quiet ache in his chest that flared whenever he saw her kiss him goodbye. It was envy, sure. But something more complicated. Something like curiosity.

What made that version of him worthy of her? What did he have that Miguel didn’t?

It gnawed at him.

The variant laughed more. Talked softer. He didn’t drag ghosts around behind his eyes. He didn’t flinch when she touched him. He didn’t correct her absentmindedly or talk over her when he got excited. He was steady. Gentle in the ways that mattered.

Good, in the ways Miguel wasn’t.

It didn’t hit him all at once. No, realizations like that rarely do. They come slowly, like water seeping into a cracked foundation. A week ago, he watched her fall asleep on the couch with her head in her Miguel’s lap. And instead of anger, he felt… small.

Like he was the shadow in the doorway. The leftover.

It felt unjust.

He was the one who had sacrificed. Who had bled, and lost, and clawed his way through timeline after timeline trying to make something right. He was the one who saw the truth, who understood how fragile it all was. He earned respect the hard way. Through grief. Through discipline. Through control.

The question kept circulating in his mind. Why did this version of him, this soft, sunny, undeserving echo, get her? Get this life?

Tonight, it crystallized.

He hadn’t meant to follow them. Or maybe he did. He was just… there. The rain was light, barely misting, but it clung to his skin and like static. They were just returning home. Grocery bags in hand. Her hair tucked under a hood. She bumped her shoulder against him and said something that made him smile.

He smiled.

Not the tired, closed-lipped version Miguel practiced in glass reflections. No, this one beamed. It stretched his face into something warm. Familiar. Easy.

And she looked at him like the sun lived in his chest. Like there was nothing else in the world she trusted more.

Miguel’s hands curled into fists, nails biting into the skin of his palms.

He hated him.

He hated him.

But not for the obvious reasons. Not just because he had her. Not just because he was living the life Miguel couldn’t touch.

He hated him because… he was better. Not stronger. Not smarter. Not braver.

Better.

There was ease in him. Softness. A gentleness Miguel had long since ground out of himself.

He doesn’t even know what he has.

He wanted to believe that. Desperately.

But deep down, in the part of himself he never looked too closely at… he knew that wasn’t true.

His variant did know. He did deserve her.

He had spent all this time hating the other man. Cursing him. Fantasizing about tearing the life out from under him.

But he had never once stopped to ask why.

He watched her lean into his chest, soaked hair falling over her cheeks. She said something low, and his alternate laughed. A full laugh, unguarded. Miguel flinched.

Now he knew.

He stared at them, frozen in place as they climbed the steps to her building, their building, he had started calling it in his head. His throat felt dry, as if the air had thinned out around him. The moment kept going, and he didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Because suddenly it wasn’t him he was looking at anymore.

He saw the version of himself he could never become.

Everything he had tried so hard to become.

And she loved him. Because of it.

She clung to him.

Because he wasn’t Miguel. Not really.

How could she know that the broken thing watching from across the street ever even existed?

The thought cracked something open in his chest.

That was the moment it shifted.

No more pretending it didn’t matter. No more half-truths and fragile fantasies. This wasn’t just some stolen life. It wasn’t just about love.

It was about being seen. Being chosen. Being enough.

And he never would be, not while that man existed.

He felt it settle in his bones, cold and final.

There was no room for two of them.

Only one could have her.

And now, at last, Miguel knew who deserved that life.

He let out a breath through his nose. Slow. Shaky.

He’d been living in the illusion that he could wait this out. That the universe would hand him a door. But the universe didn’t owe him a goddamn thing.

If he wanted that life, his life, he’d have to take it.

And it wouldn’t be easy. Wouldn’t be clean. But it would be final.

He looked up, eyes locked on the window where they’d just disappeared inside. The light flickered on. Shadows moved across curtains.

There could only be one Miguel O’Hara.

And it would not be the better one.

It would be the one who wanted it more.

𒌐

It happens on a late Wednesday night.

The kind of late where the world’s gone soft at the edges. Where streetlights buzz quietly, casting long, amber shadows that stretch out like reaching hands. Everything’s hushed. Still. Like the night is holding its breath.

Miguel’s been following him for three blocks now.

No mask. No tech. Just himself. Plain clothes and silent, drifting through the shadows like he belongs there. He knows the route, the tempo. His alternate always walks home alone on Wednesdays. Always takes the scenic streets. A small indulgence. He likes the trees, the quiet. Always did.

His alternate walks with a relaxed posture, one hand in his coat pocket, the other clutching a thermos. That same stupid thermos she bought him—green, dented at the rim. He’d complained about the color when she gave it to him. She laughed, told him it matched his soul. He doesn’t know he’s being followed. Of course he doesn’t.

He’s never had to look over his shoulder.

Miguel keeps his distance.

He’s not rushing. Not yet. He doesn’t want to rush this.

He wants to see him.

Miguel watches the way his head tilts when he passes by the bakery, the way his eyes flick up to the apartment windows above, like he’s checking on something he loves.

Someone.

He watches the way his alternate looks up at the leaves above him, lets the wind touch his face. There’s something unguarded about him. Open. Like he doesn’t believe anything bad could ever happen to him.

Miguel trails him down the long sidewalk, past the park, toward the alley shortcut. He’s calm. Focused. No nerves. No panic. That ugly truth was beginning to rise up, something awful and gut wrenching. The decision was made long ago. Long before he’d ever admit. Tonight is only the execution.

Miguel’s steps are slower now. Heavy with purpose. Measured.

He waits until the alternate steps into the alley across their apartment. The shortcut he always takes on nights like this.

Miguel closes the distance.

He’s silent as he approaches. Precise. Controlled.

When he grabs him, it’s with full force—one arm around the neck, the other locking down his shoulders, pinning his arms before he can react.

It’s not elegant. It’s brutal. Quick and decisive. A real, human chokehold.

The alternate jerks hard, but Miguel’s already behind him, taller, stronger, prepared. His legs kick against the sidewalk. He drops the thermos. Miguel kicks it away without looking.

There’s no weapon. No blade. No blood.

Just pressure and silence.

The struggle is fast and ugly. Miguel’s breathing stays even, arms locked in place as the alternate thrashes, confused, panicked. His body fights before his mind catches up. It always happens that way.

Then it shifts.

Then he starts to understand.

He makes a low sound, a choked-off, hurt question.

The alternate’s hand reaches up weakly, fingers brushing Miguel’s coat like he wants to hold onto something, anything.

Miguel tightens his grip.

Deliberately.

There’s no rush. No anger. Just the inevitable coming home.

The logical conclusion to a flawed equation.

“I know,” he mutters against the back of his ear. “I know.”

The alternate’s legs weaken. One arm flails, then fails. He collapses slowly in Miguel’s hold, knees buckling under him. His mouth is open but no sound comes out. His chest heaves. And then, at last: he drops.

Miguel lowers him to the pavement gently. Not because he cares. But because it’s his body now. His life. His clothes. His name.

The alternate gasps once, still conscious. His head rests against the concrete, eyes fluttering open. Trying to focus. He sees Miguel, really sees him, for the first time.

“You…” he breathes, voice cracked and small.

Miguel crouches beside him. Doesn’t answer right away.

He just looks at him.

It’s strange, how much they really do look alike. Same face. Same frame. But his alternate feels smaller now. Softer. Even dying, there’s kindness in his eyes.

That makes it worse.

“I’ve watched you,” he says, low. “For months.” A small shudder runs through the alternate’s body. “I used to think I hated you,” Miguel says quietly. “But that’s not it.”

The alternate coughs, the motion barely registering. His hand twitches against the pavement. Miguel leans a knee into his larynx, just hard enough to keep him from breathing.

He leans in closer. Their shadows overlapping.

“You were good. Better. You made it look so easy. Loving her. Letting her love you. You didn’t have to earn it. You just breathed and it was enough.”

The alternate blinks slowly. The light in his eyes starts to dim.

“You don’t deserve this. But I need it.”

There’s a beat of stillness.

And for the briefest second, he feels the ache of something worse than rage: pity.

“She won’t even know,” he whispers. “She’ll never have to.”

Miguel sits there for a long moment. Still crouched beside him, hands pressed to the ground like he’s anchoring himself to the scene.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

It’s not sarcasm. It’s not bitter.

It’s genuine.

But then—it’s done.

The last breath slips from his lips. The eyes go still.

It’s almost poetic, he thinks. He’s died to himself.

But the thought is flitting, and it’s not long before he moves.

Quickly and efficient. He drags the body deeper into the alley across the complex, props it up just long enough to strip the jacket, the undershirt, the boots. The alternate had been wearing a clean layer underneath: thermals, fresh.

Miguel pulls them on.

They fit. Of course they do.

He wipes down his own prints. Folds his old clothes. Shoves them into a canvas bag he’s already packed with the portal device. Thumbs open a thin, glowing portal: unstable, temporary, tethered to coordinates he picked at random weeks ago. An empty stretch of barren wasteland on a dead Earth. No civilization. No life. No trace.

He drags the body into the open mouth of the portal. Careful not to leave marks.

He stares at the body one last time. At the man who had everything. Who was everything.

Then he closes the portal.

Gone like he never existed.

He died believing he mattered, and that was more than Miguel ever had.

He's always been good at cleanup. At control.

All that was left, was to go home.

𒌐

The walk up to the door feels longer than it should.

His legs move, but the rest of him stays caught in the moment before. The scrape of the pavement under his knees, the weight of the body going still beneath his hands, the faint sound his duplicate made as the last breath rattled in his throat. Miguel keeps replaying it in his head, trying to hold onto the clarity that pushed him this far.

But now?

Now there’s just silence. And the dull thump of his heart in his ears.

He’s climbing stairs that have never belonged to him but somehow feel familiar under his boots. He knows the chipped edge on the third step. He knows the loose tile by the door. He’s memorized them. Watched them. He lived outside this life so long he started believing it was already his.

But it wasn’t.

Not until now.

His hand lingers on the doorframe. It’s painted white, slightly scuffed near the bottom from careless shoes. His other hand drifts to the keys in his pocket, warm from the heat of his body. His keys now. The ones he pulled from a coat that still smelled like detergent and clean skin and comfort.

He pulls it out slowly, stares at it for a second. A stupid little piece of metal. But this is the final gate. The last threshold.

He can barely breathe.

His fingers tremble as he fits it into the lock.

The sound it makes as it turns—soft, familiar, welcoming—nearly undoes him. His stomach flips. His skin prickles. There’s sweat at the nape of his neck and on the backs of his knees. He feels like he’s about to walk into a dream, or a memory he was never allowed to have.

The scent hits first. It’s warm. Domestic. Like detergent, candle wax, and the faintest trace of something cooked earlier in the evening and now gone cold. It’s not just a smell, it’s a feeling. Familiar. Intimate. It curls around him like steam off a hot plate, sinking under his skin.

And she’s there.

His heart almost stops.

She’s in the kitchen, back turned, curls tied up in a messy knot, sleeves pushed above her elbows as she rinses a glass in the sink. She’s wearing one of his shirts—his shirt now—and humming softly to herself. The sound is quiet. The kind of sound you make when you trust the walls around you. When you believe you’re safe.

His eyes adjust to the dim lighting, and his breath catches when he sees her.

She turns at the sound of the door shutting.

“Oh—hey,” she says, blinking in surprise, but it melts into a smile that’s so natural, so casual it almost knocks the air from his lungs. “You’re home late.”

His mouth goes dry.

He can’t move. Can’t speak. He just stares.

Up close, she’s more than he imagined. More real. Her skin has texture. Her eyes aren’t perfect, they’re tired, a little puffy from the day. Her shirt is wrinkled. Her nails chipped. She is breathtaking.

She’s a person.

Not a fantasy. Not a memory. Not a silhouette behind glass. She is here. Breathing. Blinking at him. Waiting.

She sets the glass down, drying her hands on a towel without taking her eyes off him. Her expression softens, concern flashing briefly across her face. “Everything okay?”

Miguel just stands there.

His jaw works, but no words come out.

She’s looking at him. Not through him, not across the street, not behind a pair of sunglasses. At him. Like he belongs there. Like she knows him.

And he realizes then—this is the first time she’s ever really looked him in the eye.

He nods, stiffly.

“I—yeah,” he says, voice a fraction too low. It’s thick. Dry. It doesn’t sound like him.

Not yet.

Her brow furrows. She tilts her head the way she always does when she’s trying to read someone, and it terrifies him for a moment—because what if she sees it? What if she sees him?

But she doesn’t.

She crosses the room and wraps her arms around his waist like it’s second nature, like she’s done it a thousand times. Her body presses into his and he freezes, his arms hovering awkwardly in the air, breath caught in his chest.

He gasps, quiet, involuntary, and stands stiff as her cheek presses against his chest. Her skin is so soft he almost flinches. Her body is warm, heavy, trusting. She smells like lotion and shampoo and sleep.

There’s a giddy feeling that bubbles in his chest.

This is it. This is what he stole. What he earned. The life he fought for, crawled toward, tore open with his bare hands.

And now she’s in his arms.

A soft sound leaves his throat. He doesn’t know what it is. Relief. Shock. Joy. It almost sounds like laughter, but it’s broken at the edges.

She hums lightly, content against him. Like this is just another Wednesday night. Like nothing’s changed. Like she doesn’t have any idea that the man she’s wrapped around isn’t the man she married.

“I missed you,” she murmurs into his shirt.

He closes his eyes.

He’s dizzy.

“I know,” he says, quietly.

His arms move on instinct now, wrapping around her slowly, pulling her in closer. He feels her melt into it, sighing softly as she relaxes into his chest. Her fingers curl against his back.

He almost says I missed you too, but the words won’t come.

It’s too much.

He’s never felt anything this close before. This real. The giddiness in his chest shifts into something else entirely—something messier, sharper. Not desire. Not quite love. Something like belonging, but sick at the edges.

Her home is his now.

Her arms, her voice, the quiet of her body against his—it’s all his.

Finally.

She hugged him like nothing changed, and he smiled.

Because she didn’t know it had.

“I’m home now,” he whispers.

And he means it.

please let me know if you’d like to be added to the SDILLH or ATSV taglist to be notified everytime i post, xx

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[forbiddenforestofdesire]

I commissioned a sketch of my OC, Sidwell McGucket from my fic all these evil things come from within

https://archiveofourown.org/works/49539601/chapters/125029834

credit goes to Salacious Ships or @salaciousshipping

Thank you so much for this piece!

This artist is amazing, please follow them on X/twitter at @Salaciousships

This is the scene is chapter 3 where Sid meets Ford and they spend the night under the stars right after Fiddleford's rehearsal dinner. I asked the artist to pick between this scene or the scene where Sid meets Stan "Andrew Alcatraz" at a bar for the first time and almost mistakes him for Ford! I think this works better as a cover for the work and reflects the overall themes of the story more. It's actually too cute, especially since I make the poor girl suffer so much in the story. I asked for Sid to wear her favorite Gunne Sax dress, even though Lee probably thinks they're overpriced and ugly. If you've read my fic, I hope it's nice to have some supplementary illustrations. I love this piece and I'm so happy with the final result

[itwllnvrgtbttr]

This sucks.

At least he looks cute.

[margaretpap5]

Not my OC walking into the MoM like.... 💅

https://archiveofourown.org/users/Margaretpap5/works

[ex1ledbrethren]

"I didn’t do anything to deserve this." (chapter 4)

[luvlyleyy]

Chapters: 2/? Fandom: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death Relationships: Claudia/Terry (The Dragon Prince), Callum/Rayla (The Dragon Prince), Claudia & Soren & Viren (The Dragon Prince), Corvus/Soren (The Dragon Prince), Claudia & Soren (The Dragon Prince), Callum & Ezran & Rayla (The Dragon Prince), Claudia & Viren (The Dragon Prince), Ezran/Cyra Characters: Viren (The Dragon Prince), Callum (The Dragon Prince), Rayla (The Dragon Prince), Ezran (The Dragon Prince), Corvus (The Dragon Prince), Terry (The Dragon Prince), Claudia (The Dragon Prince), Soren (The Dragon Prince), Aaravos (The Dragon Prince), Original Characters, Cyra (OC), Hilal (OC), Asa (OC) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Role Reversal, Original Character(s), Alternate Universe - Industrial Revolution, Blood and Violence, War, Dark Magic, Animal Death, Dark Claudia, Dark!Callum, Dark!Rayla, Dark!Ezran, these kids are messed up, Corvus is the sanest person in this emo war, Good Person Soren (The Dragon Prince), three traumatized teens given influence and power instead of therapy, Moral Dilemmas, Xadian Ambassador Rayla, shes Katolis' deadliest weapon, Callum collects arcanums like pokemon, Ezran wields a fucking sniper because why not, Claudia's descent to madness, Evil Aaravos, everyone's a straight menace, Cults, Loss of Parent(s), Viren Being Viren (The Dragon Prince) Summary:

A twisted "what-if" fic of The Dragon Prince, with the roles of our heroes and villains reversed, the "what if everyone went through a goth phase?" AU.

The lost princes and the elf assassin have returned to Katolis and overthrew the King Viren. After spending years on the run, experiencing magic and nature outside the borders, the three have undergone major transformations in themselves. the so-called "Heroes of Xadia."

A continent-wide fugitive, Claudia escapes her imprisonment and embarks on a dark quest to seek justice for her father and free the Startouch Elf for the greater good.

[dragonmaiden39point5]

No Escape (3)

Aight l waited long enough, here take this.

All characters depicted are over the age of 18

Summary: You grow tired of Bakugo's bad behavior and after 4 years as a couple, you make a run for it.

Katsuki Bakugo x Black!Reader

❗Ft. Dark!Deku❗

Darkfic. Stalking, humiliation, non-con, mild Daddy!kink. Potentially some untagged triggers.

Torino was very happy after the visit with his loved ones. He didn't say anything specific (he wasn't a particularly chatty old man) just that Toshinori-- the man who hired and paid you-- and his stepkid always knew how to put a smile on his face.

You did your standard routine of arranging his meals for the day which was made easier by he and his guests having harvested; Then you were on your way to work via your 18 speed bike.

Even though everything was following your new normal, you couldn't help but get this prickly feeling, like you were being watched. Just like before you left *him*. Customers were unusually scarce and there were dense rain clouds in the sky. As time dragged on during the uneventful shift your stomach began to tighten; It felt like the same one or two black SUVs with limo tinted windows were the only cars you'd seen driving by all day. It couldn't be who you'd thought it was-- Not this far away. Not here where you were safe and self-sufficient...It was certainly your imagination running wild. Just a bit of nerves, like when you first ran. Nevertheless, by the time you got off around 5pm you felt sick. That foreboding, doomlike feeling hung over you even after the clouds had burst and a downpour soaked you all the way through to your underwear as you rode your bike home.

When you got home, it was dark and you were supremely exhausted from riding around with such low visibility. Your clothes sagged off of you, oversaturated with the water that had just bombarded you. Entering through the front door, the cold air from the A/C made goosebumps rise across your skin. You stood there in the entryway for a moment, dripping a puddle onto the rug... "Thunder?" You called out, he didn't come.

You felt a wave of nausea and swallowed dryly; Torino hadn't answered either.

Without hesitation you sprinted upstairs, heading straight for the old man's room. He was fast asleep, under his reading light, radio very low playing on some golden oldies station. You sighed backing away as you closed his door.

Turning around you nearly leapt through the ceiling, covering your mouth in a silent scream. Toshinori's hulking frame stood behind you inquisitively, if not a bit surprised.

"Oh, Hey! You're finally home." He said with a smile, "You, look like you've seen a ghost."

"Ha-ha, hi-- Toshinori. I didn't know you'd be here today is all... I was just.. You startled me."

Toshinori eyed your soaked, trembling body briefly before he responded. "I wasn't supposed to stay, but the news said there'd be some flooding tonight and tomorrow so I decided to stick around instead of heading to my apartment... You know, you should really warm up." He said, careful not to stare and how the drenched fabric clung to your shivering form, how goosebumps were spread across your skin, and how your hardened nipples pushed up against your shirt.

"Oh, I uh, yeah-- Just... Where is Thunder?"

"In my room sleeping. Do you want to check? You seem pretty on edge."

"Yeah..." you nodded, walking carefully down the hallway to the room that Toshinori kept as his own. The door was already cracked, with Thunder laying across the foot of the large bed. As you pushed the door further open, he sat up and looked at you before lazily flopping down in place.

"See? Everything is fine." Toshinori said, from the hallway.

You sighed with some relief, but still a sick, sinking feeling in your stomach.

Maybe it was something you ate.

"I'm sorry. I just... It was a weird day." You lied; Other than a gut feeling it was pretty uniform that there were no customers before a major weather event.

"I'll go get cleaned up... Thunder can stay here since apparently he's so comfy." You forced a chuckle.

"Alrighty." He said eyes locked on you, shrugging. "Have a good night, then."

"Yeah, y-you too." You swallowed thickly, hurrying away, back downstairs.

You scurried through the first floor of the house in a blur hurrying all the way to the basement. Gripping the railing for support, you dragged your feet down to the last stair and sat on it, covering your eyes.

Near tears, you hadn't felt this way in so long. That feeling of being watched, like there were eyes on you all day made you sick. You would've thought that it was just paranoia-- An onset of your anxiety creeping up from back when you first moved, until you heard the rapidly approaching footsteps.

Your blood ran cold as you came face to face with Izuku Midoriya. As you attempted to stand on wobbly legs, he swiftly reached out to firmly grasp your arm. "Hey." He says, "It's been a while."

You couldn't find the words to respond, gulping in air like a fish out of water. Kacchan's best friend. A different brand of the same type of degenerate. He snatched you close, coiling one arm around your waist and using the other to stroke the damp skin on your cheeks. He didn't seem to care that the wetness from your clothes was seeping into his.

He looked at your face with great scrutiny, before moving his lips in to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Wow. You are so beautiful up close... I can see how Kacchan got obsessed." He said, sticking his tongue out to lick the side of your face.

Heated tears began to cloud your vision as he started to kiss you. You struggled against his hold, but he owned a gym after all-- You were only tiring yourself out. "Come on now." He chuckled, lifting you up with ease and carrying over your couch, upon which you were dropped upon without care.

"H-how did you find me?" You sputtered.

He lifted an eyebrow, starting to pace; one of his excited ticks. "Funny you should ask. Toshinori is my stepdad. He married my mom before you and Kacchan started dating."

You tried to clear your mind enough to speak but couldn't, instead settling for shakily forcing yourself to stand.

He continued. "I was just coming for a visit now that I have the time but, boy I sure got lucky. Thunder recognized me immediately. I can't believe you moved into a house that my family owns!"

He laughed, almost giddy at the idea of your misfortune, before slowly falling silent and eyeing you up and down. You were trembling violently in the cold air, but you likely wouldn't have fared any better regardless of the air's temperature. He stopped pacing and turned to face you completely, harshly shoving backwards onto the couch and climbing on top of you before forcing himself between your legs. Caressing your cheeks he pressed an excited kiss to your lips, forcing his tongue into your mouth.

You tried not to react, but he was very persistent, holding you in place to let his tongue fully explore your mouth. It had been ages since you were touched in such a way, yet still the tiniest wick of fire began to slightly simmer within you.

You didn't like it.

His hasty, intense approach reminded you of Kacchan and then suddenly you felt the anchor of guilt comfortably settling in with the hyper-alert anxiety that plagued you... And that tiny ping of arousal. His intensity lessened and he pulled back a bit, gazing into your eyes as he pecked and licked at your lips.

He stroked one of the stray curls near your ear that had escaped your high puff. "Gotta get you out of these wet clothes." He said, just above a whisper. That was all the warning you got before he leaned back and snatched his own shirt off, before pulling your own above your head along with your sports bra. With tremors still running through your body, your hands flew to your bare breast to cover them but he snatched them away with a petrifying amount of force.

"Don't be shy now," he chuckled, "With all the pictures and videos of you that Kacchan has shared, I know what you're *really* like." Undoing his pants, he thick erection sprung free and he pinned your wrists, squeezing them with an excess of force until you whimpered. "Play nice." He hissed, grinding against you.

You could feel all of him, the full girth of his dick as he fucked against the outer layer of your thin workshorts. He rubbed insistently over where your clit was, precum leaking from the tip and smearing all over the black fabric, effectively soiling them. You felt the betrayal of your body as your pussy throbbed from the continuous nudging and he began to kiss you, sealing his mouth over your own.

Maybe you should've bit him, screamed, knocked something over-- anything at all-- But your brain stalled out and blanked, leaving you frozen in apparent surrender. His hands released your wrists and moved to your tits, exploring the soft mounds nearly frantically. He squeezed and pinched, teasing your dark nipples as he molded and pushed the supple flesh.

Throat tightening and eyes stinging, you moaned underneath him. Your body was not your own and moved without thought as you subtly wiggled your hips.

"That's right." He huffed, "I know you like it..."

Suddenly gripping your shoulders, Midoriya jostled you around until you were laying flat on your back and he was shoving his pants the rest of the way off. He moved to sit on your chest, dick resting right between your tits. He gripped them firmly and pushed them together as he thrusted in earnest, more of his pre leaking out to defile the tender flesh.

Your eyes burned with tears, shame flowing through your veins that you could actually feel that excited wetness building up between your thighs. You had to resist the urge to reach down your pants and pursue rubbing that nagging feeling of need until you soaked yourself with release.

Midoriya's dick was swollen to full size, ready to burst and empty on you. He grabbed you by the hair and scooted up your body a bit further, now overly urgent to chase his orgasm in your mouth. To him you were so pretty when you cried, he wasn't like Kacchan who didn't care for tears. The big sad droplets pouring off of your face only motivated him to further fuck down into your intake. He loved the way your lips strained around his girth and how you gagged miserably as your already tight throat attempted to squeeze him out. He didn't stop as you sputtered and drooled around him-- that was a part of the excitement. A woman's throat constricted on its own when she cried-- as well as her mouth being hotter and more full of drool... He took one more glance at you pinned between his legs and finally came. You choked harshly but he held your head still until he had emptied every drop of the warm semen into your mouth.

You still throbbed with unspoken pleasure, even as Midoriya pulled away his fully spent cock and collapsed into the other corner of the couch with a happy sigh and left you coughing with a mouth full of his load.

You sat up slowly, cum dripping down your front and all over your hands. A small sob came from your chest and you sniffled your runny nose.

"You know, you're never gonna get away again right?" Midoriya snarked, "What do you think, Kacchan?"

You startled, wiping the tears that blurred your vision and looked across the room. Sure enough, there was the only person who had gone out of their way tomake your life a living hell, right there on the love seat.

💥💥💥💥💥