#he actively tore them apart

[mycological-mariner]

The UH CEO biting it really makes me feel extremely vindicated

[monstersflashlight]

Lusty for love

A/N: Happy Valentine's Day!

Cupid (monster) x fem!witch reader || sex pollen, (light) dub con, breeding, oral sex, dirty talk, praise kink

You were stupid. A bit more stupid than normal at least.

You were trying to get some new potions to work when you accidentally spilled the pink powder he gifted you specially for lust potions. The pink powder was obtained from the cupid species, they produced it on their wings and any human or monster would instantly fall into a lustful frenzy once they touched it. And that’s why it was so hard to get, they had to give it to you specifically with a very clear intent of lust...

Your cupid friend gave it to you as a birthday present, and you were supposed to drop an itty bitty quantity in each potion because every time someone used the powder, he would feel it. You promised not to use much, always controlling how many potions you’d make… But you weren’t expecting for it to slip your fingers and pretty much cover your whole body. Your skin was tingling and your brain was barely coherent when you dialed his number.

“I need your help,” you whispered against the speaker, not letting him even say hello.

His response was instantaneous: “What happened?” You could hear him batting his wings in the background, and you were sure he was already mid air coming to get you. He must have felt the powder activating.

“I- I dropped the pink powder on me,” you confessed, your breathing labored and your skin tingly.

Fuck, you were about to burst and you didn’t even move. You’d never felt such intensity before, it was like every inch of your body was electrified and caressed at the same time, even the touch of the clothes over your body felt erotic.

“Fuck,” he cursed. The air against the phone was enough to know he was rushing to your house, his wings almost deafening in the background.

“Please, please…” You barely made sense, your brain was fuzzy in a way that made your clit tingle and your panties were so wet you could already feel your juices ruining your pants.

“Fuck,” he cursed again. In other circumstances you would have blushed, your unrequited crush on your cupid best friend making you feel all kinds of emotions. But you weren’t thinking straight, and he was talking again: “I’ll be there in a few minutes, take your clothes off, rub your pretty little clit until you are dripping wet because as soon as I cross your window I’m going to be inside of you, and I won’t stop until you are dripping with my come for every single hole.”

His words drove your brain into a frenzy, the effect of the pink powder getting even stronger as you did as you were told, pulling at your clothes so fast and hard you broke something. You didn’t care, you’d deal with whatever tore later on. You laid on your potions table, not caring about everything falling down or the million little pieces of glass that were probably on the ground, you had only one focus: obey. Your fingers found your clit and you started rubbing rapidly, moaning against the phone.

“You sound so sweet, good damn it. I knew you’d be perfect,” his words meant nothing and all at the same time, your inside twisting and turning as your pussy contracted over nothing, making you whine and beg. “I know, love, I know.” You could hear him breathing hard, the powder probably affecting him too, and with each movement of his wings you could feel him getting closer.

The second your window opened with a big crash, you were begging for him and he was falling to his knees next to the table, not caring about the glass, grabbing your ankles and pulling your legs as far apart as possible. He set his big body between them, his wings so wide and soft you felt the tickle against your knees when he pushed your legs over his shoulders.

The first contact of his tongue against your tender flesh feels like lightning hitting your body. And it only turned better when his dexterous tongue found your clit. He ate you out like a starving monster, fucking in and out of your pussy with his forked tongue until you were screaming his name and asking for more. More. More.

You came in less than two minutes, with his fingers pressing against your G-spot and your brain turning into jelly inside your head. It was so much and so little at the same time. You needed more. You needed him inside of you in any way you could. You pushed your torso up, pulling your legs off his shoulders and shoved his chest back until he was a few feet back. You jumped off the table, not even feeling the tiny glasses on the ground as you walked over them.

It was like your orgasm only made you hornier, more desperate, you needed him more than you needed your next breath. “Let me suck you off, please, please…” You begged, your eyes fixated on his dick straining against his pants.

You fumbled with the zipper, and he helped you, looking at you with such tenderness that your heart was about to explore out of your chest. But first: dick.

“Okay, love. Okay. Whatever you want. You can do whatever you want to me.” His words sounded like a promise, and your brain was so fuzzy you could only nod as you fell to your knees. “Open up,” he ordered, taking himself on his hand and caressing your cheek with the other. He fed you his cock and you swallowed it down greedily. “That’s it, such a good witch for me, such a pretty mouth wrapped around my shaft. Fuck, do that again.”

You rolled your tongue over his head, pressing against the underside where you knew he was most sensitive. That cupid anatomy book coming in handy when you were wrapping your hand at his base and squeezing until you felt the ridges inside move. He cursed over you, his hand grabbing your hair so harshly you felt the tiny spikes of pain, but that only made you moan louder around him.

He cursed again, telling you nonsense as he moved his dick in and out of your mouth slightly. “Fuck, your mouth, love. You are perfect. You are so good to me. I’ve been wanting to have you like this forever. Good goddess, your mouth.” You grabbed his ass, trying to get him closer, further down your throat, but he stopped you. “None of that, I… I need you. I need to be inside of you. After that you can play with me all you want.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” your voice was airy and low, and without a doubt you knew your whole body was pink all over.

He helped you to your feet, claiming your mouth in a brain melting kiss before grabbing your ass and helping you back onto the table. His fingers found your pussy at the same time he positioned himself on your opening. “You are so wet, fuck.” He pushed the tip inside, and you were indeed so wet he slipped right in.

He cursed in so many languages you weren’t sure how many words he said, but you were in heaven. You reached Valhalla or whatever other heaven there existed out there. All at once. None at all… You touched the stars and came back to your body when he moved his hips back, pushing right back in and drawing a scream out of your lungs.

And then there was no more playing, only frantic fucking and dirty words.

“Do you like me, love? Do you like the feel of my cock inside of you? Do you like when I say dirty things to you?” You shivered, nodding frantically as you rolled your hips, chasing some of the pleasure he was promising you with his thrusts. “Of course you do, you love to be fucked this hard, this fast… You never had it so good, did you? None of your stupid boyfriends was as good as me. Say it.”

“None were… None as good as you…” Your voice was trembling, his thrusts too fast and harsh, but you couldn’t complain. You wouldn’t. It was that good.

“I know darling, I know nobody was as good as me. But you didn’t let me tell you that, did you? You were always with one or another, never enough time for me to fuck you as you deserved. To treat you as you deserve. To make you fucking mine,” he punctuated each word with a hard thrust that hit right over your G-spot, sending sparks of desire and pleasure to your brain until you were drooling over the table. “Tell me I’m wrong, tell me you don’t like me like that and I’ve been pining over you for nothing,” his anger was palpable in each thrust of his hips inside your pussy, his ridges undulating and massaging you from the inside.

“I CAN’T. I CAN’T. YOU ARE RIGHT!” You screamed as another wave of pleasure washes over your body.

But he wasn’t listening to you, he was too focused on his actions, on driving you insane. “You can’t because you like me. You’ve liked me as long as I’ve liked you and you’ve been denying us both. For what? For some flimsy human dick? No more, love. You don’t go back to anyone else anymore. You. Are. Mine. To. Please.”

“Yours. Yours. Yours…”

And then there’s fireworks behind your eyelids and your brain is short circuiting. You could barely hold your body up as he expanded his dick inside of you, the cupid trick of locking inside your tight pussy was multiplied by a thousand because of the pink dust, and you could only scream silently as he bred you to the brim and your vision turned white behind your eyelids.

You came back to your body resting over his chest, the soft feathers tickling your cheek as you looked down at his wet dick, still half hard. Your body still craved him, and you were about to act on it when he said: “For what’s worth… I really like you like that, too, love,” he whispered against your sweaty forehead, his breathing labored as his dick twitched in your line of sight.

You threw a leg over his middle, rubbing your still dripping pussy over his dick. “Prove it.”

And he did.

(He was also true to his promise to leave you leaking and bred from every single hole, but that’s a story for another day...)

[leftpoetrymoon]

Guys imagine, non mc is their soulmate, the one who owns half of their soul in every Life time. But they don't know that and forget their love for non mc and they fall in love with mc instead of her in every life time.

It's because non mc is cursed by Astra (instead of Zayne) so she suffers in every life watching them fall in love with mc. Like if she works as a hunter Xavier notices her and feels like she's someone that he should be devoted to but the curse activates and blocks his mind so he goes to mc.

If she works at Akso hospital as a nurse , as much as she tries to engage with Zayne he won't talk to her and have lunch with mc or hang out with her. But at night he suffers from nightmares where a faceless girl walks with him and dies at the end so horribly by his evol that he gets reminded of you.

If she is a secretary to Rafayel he playfully chats with her, hangs out with her- hell he won't even notice that his soul is responding to her because of the bond like a clueless fish, so when he sees mc he immediately forgot about her entirely .

If she is a sidekick to sylus, she slowly avoids him but like a fool when he looks at her she melts in his gaze knowing that she will be hurt when mc arrives. So she Just watches her dragon is loving another instead of his sorceress.

If she works at farspace fleet , yea Caleb is cold to her. But something in his body is always yearning for her. So she lets him, but when mc arrives she is thrown aside.

So when she finally ends that bond by cutting the red thread all of them feels like their heart gets crushed by the force only then their memories returns.

Xavier was killing wanderers as usual with mc but suddenly he fell down his knees and clutched his heart like his soul was tores into pieces. He starts to remember. The girl who died in his arms at Philos gifting him the star tassel , the girl who became a queen to feed his planet it was not mc it was her. The one he always looks at does not talk. His soulmate. So he rushes to her apartment only to find it empty. Why?

Zayne was working with his documents when suddenly his breath got hitched, his head felt like splitting. Slowly, steadily he sits on the chair gripping the edge of the table. Memories flood into his brain like a dam, he finally remembers the faceless girl in his dreams, the one died horribly at the tower by his evol, the one who symbolises his jasmine. Opening the door he rushes into the busy hallway to find her but bumps into Grayson. Zayne gripped his shoulders and asked about non mc but his heart got dropped when Grayson questioned him. "Who is non-mc? She's a nurse at Akso hospital? What are you saying Zayne there's no one working here in that name."

Rafayel was sitting by the beach to escape from Thomas, he looked at the sea and sighed softly. Suddenly he feels that. His bond disappeared suddenly, he got startled for a second so he called mc to check if she was ok. But to his surprise he didn't feel the bond when he talked to her. He suddenly groaned from the pain and gripped his hair. Back when the god of tides bonded to his priestess but forgots her when he met mc because of the curse and betrayed his homeland. He remembers that. He remembers non mc. He looked at Thomas who was running in his way. "Rafayel! Get up-" ,"where is non mc?" Thomas looked at him with a confused gaze, "what are you blabbering? Did you forget that we are hiring a secretary for you? Get up!"

Sylus walks into the mission with the twins behind them from the auction. He expects your presence to greet him when he comes back just like you always did. His eyes widened when he felt that his heart was splitting from the pain. The twins noticed this immediately and grabbed his shoulders. "Boss! Are you ok!?" Years of pain came to him, his sorceress, the curse, how he forgot his sorceress that he was searching for eons and gave his attention to someone else? His sorceress was always standing beside him but he only noticed that when you break the bond. "Luke, Kieran bring non mc to me", "Boss who is that?"

Now caleb. Alright, the colonel was at his home which was in skyhaven going through documents. He checked his phone every two minutes expecting a call or message from his new soldier but he didn't. That's when he felt the agonizing pain. He knows. He knows. He fucking finally remembers who was the girl besides him at his childhood when they were experimenting on him. Who was the girl that always holds his hand so he won't cry in his sleep. Who was the girl that he failed to protect when ever ripped you off from him. The next day he checked every possible place that you could be, but he couldn't find you. When he goes to your dorm he was surprised to find out that it was vacant for 2 months and no one's been there.

Why? What happened to non-mc?

She got erased from the universe. Because when she cuts the thread she knows that she won't be here anymore so to end this pain she does it.

Why? Love is always cruel to us?

So the roles got reversed.

Now they are the one who's with the memories of you, while you are playing the game as a player. Now in this life they are just a dating sim to you. But sometimes you notice that they don't talk about their scripted dialogues or how they look at you with the longing eyes. How they wanted to break off the fourth wall to touch you, to give you the love you deserve, wanting your forgiveness for making you wait for them. If this is their fate, they will definitely change it.

They will definitely break the fourth wall to bring you to their world, like before and gets their happy ending.

Can they?

This is just an idea that came randomly to me. So if any of you want to make a fic using this idea please do!!

[vunblr]

Toy Soldier (part 6)

Bit by bit, torn apart. We never win, but the battle wages on for toy soldiers.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Fluff. Smut. Canon-Typical Violence. Dark Content: Sexual Assault Wounds (Bucky). Depictions of Physical Wounds. Psychological Trauma. Mentions and depictions of Non-Con (both characters as victims).

Summary: She had been the tool Hydra used to keep him operational; he, the weapon manipulated by their tendrils to execute their ambitions. Years after breaking free, fate Sam Wilson brings them together once more. Now, they must navigate the challenges of forging a connection beyond the twisted dynamic that once bound them in the past.

Word Count: 6.7k

Previous Chapter

She barely had time to think before he leaned into the kiss, parting his lips beneath hers in a slow, instinctive movement. Then his hands moved, one curling around her waist, the other pressing firmly against her back, pulling her closer. A low, almost reluctant sound rumbled in his throat, something like relief, or need.

Accepting his invitation, she brushed the tip of her tongue along his upper lip before slowly exploring his mouth. His grip on her tightened, his fingers pressing into her flesh as if trying to merge with her warmth, with her. Another sound tore from his throat, raw and wanting, and-

The sharp crackle of his still-active comm shattered the moment.

"Hey, I don’t want to rush you, but are you two still alive?"

The Team Leader’s voice cut through the air like a gunshot.

Bucky moved before she could react. In an instant, she found herself yanked behind him, his body acting as a solid barrier between her and whatever threat his mind had conjured. His movements were sharp, and precise, and his free hand went straight for a weapon in the tray.

“Bucky,” she said sharply, grabbing his wrist before he could fully grasp the scorpion. She cursed fluently in three languages at that stupid man. Sam must have told him to back off, but clearly, he wasn’t keen on taking suggestions in the field.

Bucky’s breathing was heavy and erratic, and his eyes flicked wildly around the room, assessing, calculating, preparing. His entire body was coiled tight, primed for attack.

“Bucky,” she tried again, softer this time.

Nothing.

She swallowed hard, then made a careful decision. Slowly, she stepped in front of him, deliberately placing a hand over his forearm, feeling the tension thrumming beneath his skin.

“It’s just Smith, the Team Leader,” she murmured, squeezing him lightly.

A flicker of hesitation. A sharp inhale. His pupils were still blown, his pulse hammering beneath her fingers.

“Just Smith,” she repeated, firmer now. Her free hand slid up, resting against his chest, over his pounding heart. “We’re safe.”

A tense beat stretched between them before his shoulders finally slumped, just slightly, and his hand fell limp at his side. He exhaled sharply, blinking as if surfacing from deep water.

Her hands remained on him as she tilted her head, searching for his gaze. “You with me?”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. He looked at her -really looked at her- and she saw it: the moment the fog began to lift, the moment recognition dawned in his expression.

“…Yeah,” he rasped. “I’m with you.”

She let out a slow breath, relief washing over her. “Good.”

“…We should go,” he muttered, with his voice still rough around the edges, as he turned to pick up his clothes and gear.

“Yeah,” she agreed, stepping back. “Let’s go.”

------

Sam was seated a few rows back, speaking quietly with one of the pilots. He caught sight of her approach and tipped his head toward the seat across from him.

“You good?” he asked, scanning her face with a mix of concern and curiosity.

She hesitated before nodding. “Yeah. Just... exhausted.”

His gaze flicked past her, toward Bucky. “And him?”

She followed his line of sight. “He’s here. Mostly.” A pause. “Thank you, by the way. For keeping the others from barging in.”

Sam gave a slow nod. “Didn’t like it, but I trusted you. Figured if anyone could handle him, it was you.”

A beat of silence stretched between them before she spoke again. “I need to talk to Smith.”

Sam’s expression hardened slightly, but he jerked his chin toward the back of the cabin. “He’s over there.”

------

Smith looked up as she approached, setting down the field report he’d been reviewing. “I assume you’re here to yell at me,” he said dryly.

She crossed her arms. “Tempting.”

A smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth. “Look, I had to check in. I didn’t know what was going on in there.”

“You did know. Sam told you to back off.”

He sighed, running a hand over his face. “I was responsible for everyone out there. I wasn’t about to let two of our strongest assets disappear in the middle of a mission.”

She clenched her jaw but forced herself to let out a slow breath. Fighting about it wouldn’t change anything now.

“I don’t need to remind you,” she said, voice measured, “that when it comes to Bucky, sudden noises and comm interruptions can cost lives. He was barely holding on.”

Smith’s expression sobered. “Noted.”

“Make sure it doesn’t happen again.” With that, she turned and walked away.

-----

Bucky hadn’t moved.

She hesitated for a moment before lowering herself into the seat beside him. He didn’t react, still staring at the metal wall as if it held answers he was trying to decipher.

Her voice was quiet when she spoke. “It would be good if you eat something.”

No response.

She reached into the bag of supplies a medic had left nearby and pulled out a protein bar. “Just a little, your metabolism must be eating you out.” she coaxed gently, placing it in front of him. “You don’t have to finish it. Just a bite.”

His fingers twitched, but he didn’t move to take it.

She exhaled, then leaned her head slightly against his shoulder. “Bucky.”

A long silence stretched between them before finally, his hand lifted.

Not to push her away.

Not to retreat.

But to pick up the bar.

She smiled, just barely. “That’s it.”

-----

The rest of the flight she tried to sleep, to be able to heal or stabilize the wounded at some point. She managed a few restless hours, but every time she stirred awake, she caught a familiar weight on her: Bucky’s gaze, steady, unrelenting, and... disapproving.

She let it pass, starting to check on the crew. When she finally finished tending to the last injured agent, she returned to her seat, exhaling as she pressed her head against the wall. He was still looking at her.

“What is it?” she murmured, cracking one eye open.

He said nothing, just kept watching her, with his unreadable expression.

She sighed, shifting slightly. “You’ve been doing the staring thing,” she tried to joke. “And I think you broke your own record.”

Still, he said nothing.

Her brow furrowed. “Are you mad at me?”

That seemed to snap him out of it. His head turned sharply toward her, and his expression twisted into disbelief. “Why would I be mad at you?”

She shrugged, rubbing at her temple. “You’ve been looking at me like you are.”

He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply through his nose. “I don’t like it,” he muttered.

She blinked. “Don’t like what?”

He gestured vaguely toward her, the frustration evident in his voice. “This. You’re tired, and they’re using you to-”

“They are not them, Bucky,” she cut in, firmly but not harshly. “And they’re not using me. I’m doing my job. These people are comrades.”

His fingers curled against his knee, and his lips pressed into a thin line.

“That’s not the point,” he muttered.

“Then what is the point?” she asked gently.

And that was when it all came spilling out.

He wasn’t used to this, saying things out loud, admitting what was eating at him instead of burying it.

“…You’re drained,” he finally said. “You barely slept. You pushed yourself past your limit again. You think that’s just doing your job?”

She sighed, tilting her head back against the wall. “Bucky-”

“I’ve seen them do this before,” he cut in. “I’ve seen them push you, wring you out ‘til you had nothing left.” His throat bobbed, and his next words were edged. “It’s too fucking familiar.”

Her chest tightened at the weight behind his words. He wasn’t just talking about now. He was talking about then, about the way Hydra had kept her on her feet, forced her to fix and mend, and never stop, not unless they said so.

And now, even if this was different, even if she chose to do this, all he could see was her being used up all over again.

“I get it,” she murmured after a moment. “I do. But this isn’t the same.”

He scoffed under his breath, shaking his head.

She reached out before she could overthink it, resting a hand lightly on his forearm. His vibranium fingers twitched beneath her touch.

“Bucky, this is my choice.”

His gaze flicked to her then, searching, studying.

“Yeah?” he muttered, and something raw cracked in his voice. “And what happens when you push too far?

Her fingers tensed slightly against his arm, but she didn’t look away. “Then I rest. Like anyone else.”

He huffed out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Like hell you do.”

She smiled tiredly, squeezing his arm again just once before pulling back. “Then you’ll just have to remind me.”

He sighed, looking away, but he didn’t argue.

Didn’t tell her she was wrong.

-----

She knew he was tired, still on high alert, still wounded, still not entirely himself. That shitty protein bar wouldn’t do anything to keep his body going, and she wasn’t about to let him keep running on fumes.

But telling him to take care of himself never worked, at least, not when it came from concern for him. He’d brush it off, deflect, and act like his body could run on sheer willpower alone.

So, she decided to try something different.

If Bucky wouldn’t rest for his own sake, maybe he would for hers.

She shifted in her seat, letting her posture sag just enough to look drained, tucking her hands into her lap. When she spoke, her voice was quieter, just a little unsteady.

“Bucky…” she hesitated, glancing at him with the softest crease between her brows. “I feel kind of… lightheaded,” she murmured, just loud enough for him to hear.

Bucky’s head snapped toward her again, scanning her face with his sharp gaze, flexing his hands like he was resisting the urge to reach out. “Did you eat enough?” His voice was gruff, edged with concern.

“I did,” she assured him, rubbing her temple for effect. “It’s just… I burned a lot back there, and now that the adrenaline’s wearing off, I feel so tired.” She blinked slowly, letting her lashes flutter as if she could barely keep them open. “I think I just need to lie down for a bit.”

Bucky frowned. “Go. I’ll keep watch.”

She chewed her lip, shaking her head. “I don’t want to go alone.”

His brows drew together, that conflicted look crossing his face again.

“I don’t know,” she murmured, shifting closer, barely touching his arm. “I’d just feel safer if you were there. Just to rest. Please?”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, looking toward the back of the plane. The cargo area had enough space to stretch out, to be out of sight from the others.

She hesitated, then dropped her gaze, playing up the weariness. “Forget it, I shouldn’t have asked-”

“Come on.” His voice was low, resigned.

He stood, already making his way toward the back. She followed, biting back a victorious smile.

When they reached the far end of the cargo bay, she crouched down and tugged at a stack of coarse military blankets folded near the supply crates. Unfolding them, she spread them out on the floor behind a cluster of ammo crates, creating a makeshift resting spot.

Bucky watched her, with his arms crossed and his unreadable expression. “You planning on sleeping on the floor?”

She flopped down onto the blankets with an exaggerated sigh. “I’ve slept in worse places, and there aren’t many options.” she murmured, stretching out. Then, tilting her head up at him, she added softly, “I’d rather not do it alone, though.”

His jaw twitched. His eyes flicked from her to the crates, then back again, like he was assessing whether this was really necessary.

“You did say you’d keep watch,” she reminded him, scooting back slightly to make space. “You can do that just as well from down here.”

For a beat, he didn’t move.

Then, with a sigh of resignation, he knelt down beside her. She barely contained her smile as he stretched out stiffly, moving awkwardly like he didn’t quite know how to do this.

She turned onto her side facing him, resting her head against her arm. The coarse blanket beneath them did little to cushion the hard cargo floor, but she didn’t care. He was still here, still lying down beside her, and that was enough.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Bucky made a sound in response -gruff, low- but the steady hum of the plane drowned out the words. She wanted to ask him to repeat it, but another idea took hold instead. Something bold, something she hoped would keep him still, keep him resting.

She hesitated, then, carefully, she tried. “Can I hold your hand? Just- just until I fall asleep.”

His eyes cracked open at that, flicking to her face, searching. She could see the hesitation there, the gears turning in his brain.

For a moment, she thought he might refuse.

Then, with a sigh, he shifted slightly, unfurling his vibranium hand from where it rested against his chest. Wordlessly, he extended it toward her, palm up, an offering.

She took it carefully, threading her fingers through his, feeling the cool metal against her skin. He let out a slow breath and closed his hand, in a gentle but firm grasp.

“Better?” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the plane.

She smiled faintly, brushing her thumb over the intricate grooves of the plating. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Much better.”

Bucky stared at the ceiling of the cargo hold, listening to the rhythm of her breathing as it evened out into sleep. Her fingers were still tangled with his, like she knew he wasn’t quite ready to be let go of yet.

He wasn’t.

She had played him. He knew it. She had manipulated him into lying down, into resting, into staying still when every part of him screamed to keep moving. And damn it, it had worked.

A small, bitter smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He should’ve seen it coming. He should’ve been the one looking after her. After everything she had been through today, she was the one who needed to be taken care of, not him.

But she had flipped it on him, turned it around, and made herself the reason he was lying here instead of pacing, sharpening a knife, or picking apart everything that had gone wrong. It was a trick, a clever one, and the worst part was that he hadn’t minded.

Because deep down, despite the constant, gnawing instinct to stay on guard, to keep watch, there was a part of him that had wanted this. That had wanted an excuse to stop.

Also, he wanted to bask in this.

His gaze dropped to their joined hands, fingers loosely tangled together. Intimacy was something he had lost long ago, something that had been twisted and stolen from him in ways he still couldn’t fully unravel. And yet, here she was, offering it freely. Not demanding, not expecting, just… holding on.

He knew they’d have to talk when they got back. About what happened to him, about the way he had slipped, about-

His eyes flicked to her lips.

About that.

A muscle twitched in his jaw, and he forced himself to look away. He couldn’t lie to himself. Deep down, he wanted more. More than the comfort of her hand in his, more than the reassurance of her company. The raw violence that had overtaken him when he saw her in danger, the way his entire body had zeroed in on keeping her safe… it wasn’t just duty, instinct, or even friendship. It was something else entirely, something tangled in the mess of their shared past, something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want.

Because he was so fucking messed up.

And so was she.

Everything about them was tangled in pain and history, in things that shouldn’t have been, in things that were forced upon them. He had no right to want this, to want her. Not after everything. Not after what Hydra made them to each other.

But… she had kissed him.

And when he asked for more, she had given it to him without hesitation.

Bucky swallowed hard, shutting his eyes.

It didn’t matter. Not now. They were exhausted, battered, and raw, and nothing good came from picking apart things like this at 30,000 feet in the air in a crappy military plane full of prying eyes.

-----

At some point, he drifted. The adrenaline, the stress, the wounds, it all took a toll on his body. Lying close to her and sensing the warmth of her body beside him, his brain finally shut down. His breathing evened out, and his muscles uncoiled ever so slightly.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out when something stirred him awake, a slow, soothing warmth against his ribs, pulling him from the depths of much-needed rest. His body tensed instinctively, as his mind tried to assess the unfamiliar sensation.

He shifted slightly, furrowing his brow, and then he registered it. Her hands.

Beneath his henley, pressed against bare skin, the warmth of her palms sent a ripple of sensation through his body, not unwelcomed, but startling. His sluggish mind took a second too long to catch up, as the dull ache in his side faded under the touch of something familiar.

“What are you doing?” he heard himself ask, with a rough voice from sleep.

She didn’t even flinch. Didn’t even open her eyes. Just huffed a small breath, still working gently. “I’m not taking advantage of you, if that’s your concern,” she quipped sleepily.

His jaw tightened, caught somewhere between exasperation and something else he wasn’t ready to name.

You’re depleted,” he muttered. “You shouldn’t be wasting-”

“I’ll be fine,” she interrupted, voice thick with exhaustion but firm. “You were still bleeding. I couldn’t ignore it.”

Bucky sighed, pressing back his head against the coarse blanket beneath him. He should argue. Should tell her to stop, to save her strength, to let him deal with it.

But the warmth of her touch was so soothing, pulling the ache from his body in a way no amount of rest ever could. And, selfishly, he didn’t want her to stop.

So instead, he huffed quietly and muttered, “Stubborn woman.”

She hummed, barely awake, slowing her hands as the last traces of her power sealed his wound. “Look who is talking” she murmured, finally letting her palm rest against his side.

Bucky exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. He didn’t dare move, not yet. ----

When they landed, it was agreed that debriefings would start in 24 hours, giving the team some slack to rest and recover. She glanced at Bucky and saw how the exhaustion weighed on his features, how the tension still lingered in his frame, she knew what she have to do.

She bit her lip, unsure how to bring it up. She wanted to check on him, to make sure he’d be okay. But she also -selfishly- didn’t want to be alone after everything. So before she could overthink it, she just blurted out, “Do you wanna come home?”

He snapped his head toward her, fixing his tired gaze on hers. “What?”

“I asked if you want to come to my house,” she repeated, forcing her voice to stay light, and casual, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “You know, the couch is really cozy, better than the floor you sleep on.” She tried for a teasing smile, though her heart was hammering. “I can make us something to eat. Or order in if you’d rather. Then we rest.”

She paused, watching him carefully, and then added, “I can bake you cookies if you like.”

He pressed his tongue against his cheek, looking down, considering. After a moment, he met her gaze again. “I missed your cookies.”

“So?” she half-smiled, tilting her head in encouragement.

He exhaled through his nose like he was debating something internally. Then, with a small, reluctant nod, he accepted.

The thing was, going back to his empty apartment didn’t appeal to him. Not after everything. And beyond that, there was still this lingering urge to check on her, to be near, to make sure she was okay. He didn’t know how to deal with it, didn’t know what to do with what swirled inside him. The fact that she offered, that she wanted him there, made things easier.

“Great!” she said, as she turned, rummaging into one of the crates of equipment. He watched as she pulled out a white t-shirt, a pair of blue sweatpants, and -he blinked- a pair of boxers. She stuffed them into her bag without hesitation.

His brows furrowed slightly. “What-”

She cut him off, waving a hand at his tac gear. “What? You’re entitled to use this, you know? And certainly, you won’t be walking around my house in all that.” She gestured at the reinforced pants, the combat vest, and the weapons still strapped to him.

Bucky scoffed lightly, shaking his head. “You don't think that museum piece of a couch you have can handle it?”

She smirked, slinging the bag over her shoulder. “Nope.”

Then, with a teasing glint in her eye, she added, “And certainly not my nose. You are showering the second we cross the door.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head again. “Yeah, well, you don’t smell like roses either.”

She gasped in mock offense, nudging his arm as they started walking. “Excuse you?”

Something in his chest loosened at the way she spoke to him like none of the events of the past few days had changed anything. Like they could still be… this.

Whatever this was.

-----

The second they stepped inside her home, the scent of lavender and something else he could never quite place hit him. It was subtle, woven into the very air, clinging to the blankets draped over the couch, the cushions she always tucked into the corners, the soft fabrics and wooden surfaces that made up her space.

Strangely, it smelled like… home.

His shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly and the tension in his muscles eased, as his body finally registered how utterly drained he was. He had spent so many years in places that smelled sterile, and metallic, like gun oil and blood. Places where he didn’t belong.

But here… here was different.

She dropped her bag near the entrance, stretching her arms over her head with a satisfied sigh. “Alright, Sergeant, shower. Now.”

He huffed a small laugh, shaking his head, but didn’t argue. She was right. He needed it. Probably more than he’d ever admit.

As he toed off his boots, she was already moving toward the kitchen. “I’ll find something for us to eat,” she called over her shoulder. “Go get yourself human again.”

He lingered for a second longer, sweeping his gaze over the familiar space, the way the low lighting softened the cozy room… how her presence filled every corner. Then, he grabbed the spare clothes she had packed for him and headed toward the bathroom.

Maybe, just for tonight, he could let himself settle a little. Just a little.

-----

She was stirring the pot when she heard the soft, almost hesitant steps behind her, on the wooden floor. She didn’t turn, but she could feel him there, lingering in the doorway, freshly showered, the faint scent of her shampoo clinging to his skin.

“Enjoyed the bath?” she asked, keeping her attention on the simmering food.

A low hum was his only response at first, but then he stepped further into the kitchen.

She turned to face him, slightly curving her lips. “I got a mission for you,” she declared, holding up the wooden spoon. “Watch this while I shower.”

His brows furrowed slightly. Then he glanced between her and the pot, warily. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. What if I mess it up?” he asked, eyeing the bubbling mixture with suspicion. “What if it burns? What if-”

“It’s chicken and rice, Bucky, not rocket science,” she interrupted, amused but patient. “You just need to stir it twice every five minutes. That’s all.”

He still didn’t look convinced. He hovered his fingers uncertainly before wrapping around the spoon, as if expecting it to fight back.

She smirked. “You look like I just asked you to disarm a bomb.”

“Feels like it,” he muttered.

“It’s the twenty-first century,” she stepped past him. “Men cook too, you know.”

He let out a slow breath, slightly adjusting his grip on the spoon. “Two times every five minutes?”

She grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

----

Steam curled around her, as the warm water cascaded over her tense shoulders, but it did little to ease the knot of guilt lodged deep in her chest. She braced her hands against the cool tile, letting the spray hit the back of her neck as her thoughts assaulted her.

Bucky had regressed. Hydra had buried that part of him so deep that even now, after years of freedom, it still lurked beneath the surface, waiting for the right trigger. And she… she had been that trigger.

Her stomach twisted. He had gotten hurt because of her. And not just physically. She needed to talk to him about that. To make him understand that he didn’t have to go to such extremes for her. That she didn’t want him to. She wasn’t his mission. She was his friend.

But then, there was the kiss.

She pressed her forehead against the tile, squeezing her eyes shut as heat flooded her cheeks. It had been hesitant, cautious, born of raw feelings and lingering adrenaline. But it had happened. And then… he had asked for more.

What now?

Did he regret it? Had it been just a momentary lapse, a fragile thing that couldn’t survive outside the chaos of the mission? Maybe he wanted to forget it happened. Maybe he needed to. To go back to the easy understanding they had before, without the weight of something new tilting the fragile balance between them.

She exhaled sharply. If that was the case, she wouldn’t push. The last thing she wanted was to make things harder for him.

But if it wasn’t…

------

When she stepped out of the shower, warm and comfortable in her old pajamas, she felt a little steadier. The decision was made, after dinner. She would talk to him then.

Padding into the kitchen, she found him exactly where she’d left him, standing by the stove, arms crossed, watching the pot like it might betray him at any moment.

She smirked, walking past him to grab a couple of plates. “Hey, look at that,” she teased. “The kitchen isn’t on fire. You did great.”

Bucky huffed, shaking his head as he stepped aside to let her take over. “Yeah, well… wouldn’t have bet on it.”

She chuckled, ladling generous portions of food onto their plates. He grabbed the cutlery and followed her to the table, helping her set things up without a word. When they finally sat down to eat, the silence was still present. Not precisely uncomfortable, but thick with something unspoken.

That silence, however, was soon broken. Not by words, but by the low, involuntary groans Bucky let out as he ate.

She raised a brow, pausing mid-bite to watch him. He had already finished his first serving and was now working through his second, using a piece of bread to push food onto his fork with a single-minded focus.

She tried not to smile. At least he was eating. That was something.

When his plate was scraped clean, he sat back with a sigh, rubbing his hand over his stomach before eyeing the pot.

“Go ahead,” she said, amused, before he could ask.

He didn’t need to be told twice. He stood up, and refilled his plate again, and she shook her head fondly as she tore off a piece of bread for herself.

-----

Once they had eaten, Bucky insisted on doing the dishes. She tried to argue, but he had already started gathering the plates, giving her a look that didn’t leave room for discussion.

“Go,” he muttered, turning on the sink. “You cooked.”

She huffed but didn’t push it, retreating to the living room instead. She pulled the couch into its bed form, laying out a pillow and blanket, making sure it was as comfortable as possible.

By the time he was finished, drying his hands on a towel, the couch was ready, and she was perched on the edge, idly picking at the blanket with her fingers.

“Can we… talk a little?” she asked, looking up at him.

Bucky froze for half a second before exhaling through his nose, tossing the towel onto the counter. He knew this was coming. He just hadn’t expected it to be this soon.

Still, he nodded, making his way over. He sat beside her, careful with the space between them, resting his forearms on his knees.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “We can talk.”

A beat of silence stretched between them, and then she took a breath.

“I just... I wanted to check in.” She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “After everything that happened.”

His jaw tightened. He knew what she meant.

The mission. The regression. The way he had snapped, the way Soldat had surfaced so easily, like slipping into an old coat. And-

His gaze flicked to her lips before he caught himself, dragging his focus away, fixing it on the coffee table instead.

The kiss.

He hadn’t let himself think about it. Not really. Because if he did, he’d have to face it, that it hadn’t just been the heat of the moment, that something deep inside him had wanted it. That even now, sitting here with her, part of him wanted to reach out, feel the warmth of her skin under his fingers again.

She looked at him, then down, biting her lower lip. “I don’t know how to start, so I’ll just…” She waved her hand vaguely, exhaling. “How long has it been since Poland? Six months?”

“Seven,” he corrected.

“Seven,” she repeated, nodding slowly. She hesitated for a second, then turned to look at him fully. “Reconnecting with you, getting to know you -the real you- has been good. More than good.”

He kept his gaze on the floor, hands clasped together, listening.

“We have this… friendship-” She saw the way his shoulders tensed slightly at the word, the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw. But she pressed on. “After everything we went through, you get me. And I think I get you. That’s why I know I can talk freely to you.”

She paused, searching his face. His expression was carefully blank, but his fingers twitched where they rested on his knees, a tell she had come to recognize.

“I’ve noticed that lately, you have been more... protective of me.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened again, but he said nothing. His features hardened. He wasn’t going to deny it, not when they both knew it was true.

“Like overreacting when I go to little missions-”

“I don’t overreact,” he interrupted gruffly, and for once, looked at her.

She gave him a pointed look. “Bucky, you tried to influence my superiors into not sending me to that drug trafficker affair last month.” He tensed further, curling his fingers into loose fists. “You think I wouldn’t know?”

His mouth opened, then closed. He looked away.

“How do you even know about my assignments?” she pressed. Still, nothing.

She let out a slow breath, shaking her head. “I’m not a porcelain doll, Buck. I-”

 “You are my doll, alright?” he cut her off suddenly, with roughed voice, almost desperate. He shook his head as if frustrated with himself. “I know it’s messed up. I know we don’t-” He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “But I can’t help it. The idea of you getting hurt again… I would lock you here in this apartment if it were up to me.”

She blinked, trying to process the weight of his admission. He wasn’t just being protective. This wasn’t about simple concern. It was something deeper, something tangled in decades of fear and loss. “But it’s not up to you,” she said gently, but firmly. “I know you’re scared-”

“I’m not scared,” he snapped, then immediately exhaled roughly, rubbing his temples. “I just… I can’t do nothing. Not when it’s you.”

“And that takes us to what happened the last few days,” she carried on.

His gaze flickered away. He shifted slightly where he sat, curling his fingers around the edge of the couch like he could brace for whatever she was about to say next.

“You shut me out, Bucky” she continued, “then you-”

“I’m sorry to be a burden,” he interrupted suddenly, working his throat around the words. “It’s not my intention to fuck up your life.” He sounded so lost, so small.

“Burden?” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. “What- What do you think this conversation is about, Bucky?” She leaned forward slightly, trying to catch his eyes, but he kept them stubbornly averted. “Let me finish.”

He tensed but didn’t argue.

“I was so scared to lose you there,” she admitted, “The guilt I felt for what happened to you, because you put me first, because you don’t think about yourself… like you don’t matter at all.”

His breath shuddered slightly at her words, and his fingers twitched against his knee, a telltale sign of unease. When she reached out, taking his hand in hers, he stiffened, but didn’t pull away.

“Bucky, you matter.” She squeezed his fingers, urging him to hear her. “You always mattered.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. His gaze remained locked somewhere past her shoulder, like looking at her would make it worse. His vibranium fingers flexed beneath her touch, clenching once before settling.

“I don’t-” he started, before shaking his head. “I don’t know how to be that. To be… something that matters.”

“Look at me, Bucky.”

He hesitated, tensing his jaw, but she waited patiently until his tired blue eyes finally met hers.

“What you feel, that protectiveness…” She swallowed, gathering the courage to lay it all bare. “I feel it too. I want only good things for you. I need you to understand that.”

His expression flickered, something unreadable passing through it, but he remained silent.

She exhaled, pressing forward. “If something ever happened to you, and on top of that, because of me-” Her voice caught, and she shook her head. “I would be devastated, Buck.” She gave his hand another squeeze. “So don’t ask me not to care. Because I do. And I always will.”

His throat bobbed again. He looked at her -really looked at her- but still, he didn’t speak.

“You ended up regressing there, Bucky.” She lifted a hand, cupping his cheek, brushing her thumb over the sharp line of his cheekbone. “I was so scared to lose you.”

His jaw tightened beneath her touch, and for a fleeting moment, his eyes fluttered shut as he leaned into her warmth, before catching himself. When he opened them again, there was something hollow in his gaze, something distant.

“You didn’t lose me,” he muttered without conviction.

She swallowed. “Didn’t I?”

His fingers twitched under her hand.

“It was you, but it wasn’t,” she continued, “What if you could never return?”

His lips parted slightly, but no words came. When they did, his voice was almost automatic. “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “It’s not about being sorry, Bucky.” Her palm remained on his cheek. He still hadn’t pulled away. “It’s about... trying to prioritize yourself. If not for you, then for me.”

His throat worked around a response, but nothing came. Instead, he just stared at her, like she was offering him something he wasn’t sure he had the right to hold.

"Finally..." She took a breath. "We have to talk about... what happened, what we-”

Bucky tensed just slightly, but she felt it. His fingers curled against his thigh, and his gaze flickered away again.

She took another breath. “What we did,” she clarified gently. “What it meant.”

His jaw clenched. He nodded once, like he had expected this conversation but still wasn’t ready for it.

“I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen,” she continued, softer now. “But I also don’t want to assume… anything.”

His fingers flexed, and his shoulders tensed. When he finally met her gaze, his voice was hesitant. “…What do you want it to mean?”

She took a slow breath. “A moment ago, you said you feel like I’m your doll.” Her fingers curled slightly against his. “I want that, Bucky.” She swallowed, holding his gaze. “I’d love to be your doll.”

Bucky just stared, with his unreadable expression. Like he couldn’t quite process the words, like they didn’t make sense coming from her. His lips parted, but nothing came out. He shook his head slightly, knitting his brows together in something between disbelief and hesitation.

“You… You don’t mean that,” he muttered.

She squeezed his hand. “I do, Bucky. I want that. I want you.”

For so long, he had buried this need, convinced himself that what he felt -the pull, the protectiveness, the want- was one-sided. A fractured, messed-up thing formed between them in Hydra’s wreckage, and it was a cross he had to bear alone. He had convinced himself that friendship and companionship were all he’d ever get from her, and he had tried to be at peace with that.

Almost.

She hesitated. His expression remained unreadable, and the silence stretched longer than she could bear. He was processing -she knew that- but the longer he went without speaking, the more uncertainty clawed its way up her throat.

Slowly, she withdrew her hand, curling her fingers into her lap as she lowered her gaze. “Just-” she exhaled shakily, forcing a small, strained smile. “I’m sorry. I thought when you said I was your doll… you meant it differently. If it was just an endearment, something between friends… if I misread it, we can still-”

“Say it again,” he whispered.

His voice was rough, almost hoarse, like he wasn’t sure if he had any right to ask but needed to hear it anyway. Like he couldn’t believe that what she was offering -what she was giving him- was real.

“That I…” She swallowed. “I’d love to be your doll.” Then, softer, almost a whisper. “If you’ll have me.”

Bucky blinked, as if snapping out of a trance. Slowly, almost timidly, he lifted his hand, brushing his fingers against her cheek. His touch was light, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed, like he wasn’t sure if she would disappear if he pressed too hard.

Then, the smallest smile tugged at his lips, barely there, uncertain, but real. His gaze flickered downward, lingering on her lips for a breath too long before he met her eyes again.

“…Can I kiss you properly?” His voice was rough at the edges, like he was afraid to ask, afraid of the answer.

She exhaled softly, warmth blooming in her chest as she leaned into his touch. “Yes. You can kiss me properly,” whatever that meant.

For a moment, he didn’t move, just stared at her like he was still trying to convince himself this was real. That she was real. That this was allowed.

Then, slowly, he leaned in.

His fingers traced a tentative path along her jaw, brushing his nose against hers before he finally closed the distance.

The kiss was different from their first, deeper, warmer. This wasn’t about grounding or reassurance. He kissed her like he was trying to map her, like he was trying to savor every second of it in case it was taken away from him.

And she let him, curling her fingers against his shoulders as she leaned in.

Then, he let himself sink into it, and for the first time in a long, long while, he allowed himself to want.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @sunshinedayz19 @star-maker-rain-dancer @tumdlrnewb84 @mgchaser @buckys-arm-and-rios-dagger @gotminho @kaitlin013106 @startorrent @idontknowhowtonormal @mattmurdock42 @hnnhbananananana @aeriss-at-heart45 @jainaeatsstars @airixaram @seventeen-x @jaxz21 @zizzlekwum @hi172826 @valckenaux @moth-maam56 @myllamatimemachine @unaxv @smiithys @cats-chaotic-mind @melsunshine @neuviloved @cjand10 @frombkjar @strvnger3ditz @nikkinss @alexandra-001 @lavanderbreeze @cats-chaotic-mind @sleep-tight1 @lasrehsif @delicatepersondinossaur @bodhisattva11 @isepod @mrsnikstan @impoeticbeauty @beewilko @chinggay85-blog @ruexj283

Dividers by @/strangergraphics

[bubbleggum444]

—❝LITTLE MIƧƧ ACTIVIST!❞

𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠 damian wayne x fem!reader, new hero!reader au, fluff + angst (n comfort), 3k+ wc.

𝑠𝑦𝑛𝑜𝑝𝑠𝑖𝑠 he knows all too well what it is like to feel like you don't fit it.

This felt so... wrong. Everything and everyone around ___ was just so frustrating, so difficult to deal with.

She had been an activist for as long as she could remember, fighting for what she believed in. But everything changed when she became a hero.

For better or worse? She wasn’t sure. No—oh great, Starfire just burned another tree down. Just perfect. Yeah, definitely worse.

Time and time again, this path hurt. It pulled at her, tore at her, like two different people were fighting for control inside her body.

One part of her—the old her—was someone who spent hours protesting, climbing trees to protect them, boycotting inhumane brands, and helping the vulnerable.

The other—the hero—was someone who saw, day in and day out, just how much destruction heroes left behind in their wake.

She knew her thoughts must have been tiring to others. Maybe even annoying. But she didn’t care. They weren’t her, and she wasn’t them. No one had the right to tell her how to feel about this.

Still, she could only bite her tongue for so long.

During a mission, Beast Boy casually tossed a used water bottle onto the street.

She hesitated, not wanting to sound like a nag. So instead, she simply picked it up, intending to throw it in a trash can.

Then she heard Garfield chuckle.

"Are you our new teammate or the trashman, newbie?"

Ouch.

Even the other Titans fell silent at the remark.

Her fingers clenched around the plastic, her vision burning. She didn’t dare look at any of them. She was too close to breaking.

So she walked away.

She hadn’t planned to. It was an impulsive decision, but that was who she was—rash, reactive. Always ready to act against injustice, even before becoming a hero.

She kept walking until she reached a park bench and collapsed onto it. The moment she was alone, the tears came. She hated this—hated feeling weak, hated that everything was finally catching up to her. The pressure of expectations, the weight of two halves of herself pulling in opposite directions.

It felt suffocating.

Like the disappointment she had seen in her parents’ eyes when she struggled to balance school and activism. The kind of disappointment that didn’t hurt physically but cut so much deeper.

A shiver ran down her spine as something cold wrapped around her from behind.

Whack!

On instinct, she swung back, landing a solid smack on whoever had just grabbed her.

"Damian?!" Her eyes widened.

"Oh my God, I’m so—"

"No, I deserved that," he admitted, rubbing his arm. "I came after you... I just didn’t know how to approach you."

Her chest tightened.

She hadn’t expected anyone to follow her. Least of all Damian.

She couldn’t stop the fresh wave of tears that spilled over, but this time, he was ready. He pulled her into another hug, and she let herself sink into it, gripping onto him like she might fall apart otherwise.

"There’s nothing wrong with being someone who picks up trash," she mumbled, voice still thick with emotion.

"That’s a decent, respectable job."

Damian huffed a small laugh.

"That’s not funny—"

"I know."

He tilted her chin up, his touch uncharacteristically gentle. His green eyes searched hers, steady and unreadable.

"I’ve noticed how much you’ve been pushing yourself, ___," he murmured.

"Stepping out of your comfort zone. Going against things you once believed in."

His hand brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear, fingers lingering for a second longer than necessary.She held his gaze, her breath catching.

"It’s admirable," he continued, voice softer now. "And... I understand more than you think."

She swallowed hard.

She barely knew Damian. Out of all the Titans, he was the most closed off.

Yet here he was. In a park. In the middle of the night. Holding her. Comforting her.

Was it always this warm at this time of year?

Her voice wavered slightly when she spoke. "Meaning...?"

He exhaled, thumb brushing over her cheek like he was afraid she might break.

"Meaning I’ve been where you are," he admitted. "I know what it’s like to feel like an outsider. To think that no matter what you do, you’ll never truly fit in."

His voice dipped lower, carrying something raw beneath it.

"And it hurt deeply. I rejected those who tried to help me because they were different, yet I embraced the pain from others simply because they were my familiars."

The air between them felt heavy—not with awkwardness, but with something deeper. It was as if their hearts had silently intertwined, speaking in a language beyond words. The weight of unspoken emotions filled the space between them, their rapid beats echoing a conversation only they could understand.

She felt it. The way her heartbeat stumbled, the way something in her chest tightened painfully.

And she could feel his too. Beating, racing—just like hers.

The silence between them was fragile, delicate, like the moment might shatter if either of them spoke.

With one arm dropping to his side, the other wraps itself around her shoulder in a gentle side hug.

"Let’s go get some dumplings," he murmured. "There’s a Chinatown nearby. The vendors stay open late."

Slowly, she let herself relax against him, nodding.

"Okay," she whispered. "Let’s get some pho."

As they walked along the cobblestone streets, ___ let out a quiet giggle.

His cheeks kind of look like dumplings…

She bit her lip to suppress her laughter, but Damian caught it anyway.

His gaze flickered toward her. "What’s so funny?"

She shook her head, smiling to herself.

"Nothing," she said softly. "I’m just really excited for the food."

Damian narrowed his eyes, unconvinced. But he let it go, walking just a little closer to her as they made their way down the dimly lit street.

And for the first time in a long time, ___ felt like maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t so alone after all.

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ

𝑏𝑢𝑏𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑔𝑔𝑢𝑚444©

𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 <𝟑

alsooo BB would NEVA be like this. I just needed a "bad guy" for the story :)👌🏻

[that-weird-thing-in-the-woods]

~{Heyyyy, I’m back! Sorry I got busy with some personal shit but it should be over now but if you gremlins don’t hear from me in a bit that’s probably it anyway here you gremlins go!}~

•Lullaby•

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Young master Bruce has started to speak again.

It was about a year after the very unfortunate deaths of Martha and Thomas Wayne that young Bruce was a witness too, and after that day the young master would almost never speak besides when he absolutely had too and how that broke Alfred’s heart how fast a bright and sweet child could be broken into a shell of their former self.

But Alfred had to stay strong and take care of the young master and he was doing just that for this past year but as stated before Young Bruce had started to talk again.

But instead of what Alfred would expect him to talk about like Grey Ghost or wanting story’s about his parents or absolutely anything else Young Bruce had talked about a song that he heard when he had a nightmare.

This made Alfred wonder if he needed his shotgun or if he needed to call a priest.

So like anyone in this situation would do Alfred subtly asked questions about the lullaby and what he had gathered from young Bruce’s words is that it was played from the grand piano in the house with muffled singing and this caused Alfred great concern at the thought of someone else in the manner but didn’t show it on his face only nodded to young Bruce’s words and changed the subject but not letting it leave his mind.

So here Alfred was walking down the hallway to where young Bruce said the song came from with his shotgun in hand and after a few more steps down the hallway a sound that Alfred hasn’t heard since Madam Martha’s death, the sound of th grade piano playing.

This made Alfred soften his steps to avoid all noises from him as while as fasting his steps until he reaches the door and from how the door was left ajar he could see inside the room and that’s when he saw them.

A figure in a long white dress with pearls around their throat that seemed to glow in the moonlight light that streamed in through a window their white hair seemed to glow as well until the ends of their hair which turned black but what really caught Alfred’s attention was the blackened clawed hands that skillfully played the piano.

But Alfred made a mistake a stepped a bit too loud and the song suddenly stop, the silents was deafening an Alfred looked up and made eye contact with the figure.

The pure black eyes of the figure.

-•—••••••••••••••••—•-

•Background•

Danny had been fully dead for about four years at this point.

After Maddie and Jacks betrayal after Danny had told them about what he was than them acting as though they accepted him only for them to trap him in the basement as soon as Jazz left for college.

In that horrible basement they tore him apart just to see what would happen luckily for Danny his core was somehow able to handle it until they cracked it when they tried a new invention on him and that’s when he become a Full-Ghost but not without causing everlasting damage on him they took his eyes and damaged his hands beyond repair.

So when he was transported in the Ghost Zone after his full death, he was basically helpless but he landed close enough to Clockworks Lair for him to pick Danny up and bring Danny back to rest up and heal, When Danny’s core was done healing all of the bits of himself that could be fixed Clockwork used some of his own power in somehow activate a hidden gene that came from long long ago where one of Jacks ancestors got married to a demon child.

This caused Danny’s hands and eyes to fix themselves and grow new but it did hurt and forever changed as his eyes were now pure black and his hands were now blacked and had claws but Danny wasn’t hurting anymore so he count this as a win. And with Danny now a full ghost he had all the time to do anything he wanted he even started to learn the piano!

But right now he is playing the piano in a manor for a young boy after being asked by his dead parents before they Faded and Danny would say he was doing a pretty good job at helping with nightmares.

That’s when he hears a footstep.

-•—••••••••••••••••—•-

•Little Facts•

•Martha and Thomas asked Danny to help because they talked with some other ghost *cough* Clockwork *cough* that said Danny has a soft spot for kids

•Little baby Bruce is just sleeping through all of this

•Danny and Alfred just staring at each other like

🎹⚫️_⚫️

🔫👁️_👁️

•Alfred had a thing with Thomas and Martha in this

•This is not an Alfred X Danny, Danny looks 15 at most Alfred will think of him as a another kid

~{Sorry for not adding much here I am very tired and will probably add more later}~

-•—••••••••••••••••—•-

•Appearances•

Danny’s appearance-

And here’s the prompt that brought this on!

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

~{And that’s it! Hope you gremlins like it! But for now byeeeeeeee}~

[tinmate]

It’s so important to me that the Foxes annoy Kevin.

Like the poor boy had no friends on his team and throughout his childhood. The only people he loved and cared about after his mom were

Jean, who he had to watch be and beaten and tortured and abused until the fight went out of him and then until he tried to kill himself and then be tortured again for failing to die and at least Kevin was a pet, Jean just a toy to be broken and taken away and used and discarded.

And Riko who abused him and manipulated him and took pleasure in beating him down while acting like they were closer than friends, actual brothers.

The Master who is so horrible that Kevin barely even speaks of him.

And then he’s treated as this godlike son of Exy by the public. Aside from Jeremy, it seems like the other teams aren’t even immune. He’s not a college athlete, he’s this unfathomable celebrity.

And then the Foxes are just SO unimpressed and actively annoyed with him. They bicker and tease but there’s no bite. Not like the Ravens. They drag him along on their fun excursions at knife point because it’s important that he’s there with them. They force him to have fun and ride horses and hike in the mountains while also respecting his skills on the court. They stock their home with cheese and candy bars and make him eat ice cream at crap diners and go dancing in clubs. And not all of it is healthy, Kevin’s self medicating with vodka for sure, and the behavior of the monsters is dubious at best especially in the first book, but they bring him along because they want him there. Not Kevin Day: Rising star of Exy. They want Kevin Day: Mega Nerd.

The Ravens hurt and tore each other apart in any way they could, nothing but venom and malice behind their words. Nicky calls him a brat and the in the affectionate ton calls him family. Kevin and Jean’s sexualities were used against them, another item for Riko’s amusement, the Ravens have hate sex more than actual care. Allison is visibly disgusted at the thought of hooking up and no one pushes it beyond characteristic teasing

Andrew is chronically annoyed with Kevin but follows him everywhere like a goalkeeper shaped safety blanket because years of the Nest leave Kevin anxious when alone. He’s capable of the same violence as the other Ravens but he never actually hurts Kevin until the last book. He gives Kevin his pills and his game and his house and his family and his trust but not his respect. Not always. It’s the same brutal healing he gave Matt.

Allison calls his tattoo, a number forced on him since childhood, a tramp stamp. Riko would kill him for removing it but the Foxes basically riot with happiness when he changes it.

Kevin was locked in the Nest, monitored at every move, watched and betrayed and even when he was able to leave, was shackled to Riko and Ichirou and forced to lie and perform while hurting. Wymack gives him keys to the court, to his home. Abby opens up her home for him to stay at over the holidays. Andrew and Aaron and Nicky bring him into their home and their favorite restaurant and club.

Do you think Kevin’s ever afraid of turning into Riko or Ichirou? We know Jean struggles with Raven impulses, especially when teaching. Do you think Kevin ever looked at tiny, fierce, stupid, stubborn Neil Josten and was afraid he’d hurt him on instinct? Do you think he was crushed by the honor of knowing that, in Nathaniel’s last days alive, he still wanted Kevin to train him?

No one could ever speak out against Riko, Kevin could never truly be himself. Everyone speaks out against Riko, Neil actively sasses the press.

Everyone teases Kevin and rolls their eyes and pushes his buttons while holding him close

And then, the one time true violence is turned against him by a teammate it’s in defense of Neil and immediately three other teammates intervene. They all platonically share a room because they’re so worried about Neil when he comes back. They’re angry and upset with Kevin but Andrew threatens him at knife point to go on vacation with them. They hear about the ugly truth of Kevin’s life and again and again and band around him every time. They treat him like a person, like a teammate, like family.

It’s important to me that they, like the fandom, think Kevin is a little bit of a diva and that they tell him that to his face. That they think he’s a nerd but let him ramble.

They call Neil his “mini me” and they all love Neil so much. I hope Kevin sees how they treat Neil who’s equally obsessive, equally intense, equally traumatized, equally as tied to gangsters and realizes that they love him too. That the insults and teasing are a love language

Idk man, just Kevin being treated like a person. This big burning star getting vetoed on a candy drawer and receiving his teammate's playful horror to his media personality because that is NOT our boy and being accepted for exactly who he is: a person who’s allowed to be imperfect and dramatic and safe to tease about it.

[animeyanderelover]

Hi !Can you do a neko reader with Killua, Kurapika ,llumi,Chrollo, Feitan, Shalnark,Gojo and Yuta please? Have a nice day!

I’m pretty sure that I did a Nemo s/o once with a few Hunter x Hunter characters but that has been very long ago and I’ve become a better writer since then so I will do those characters in here once more.

Tw: Yandere themes, possessive behavior, obsession, delusional behavior, stalking, overprotective behavior, manipulation, isolation, sadism, abduction, death

Tags: @jamayah @maggiequinn59 @chxxz @leveyani @shenryu-sama @hyakki-yosai @lovley-valentine7

Neko s/o

Killua Zoldyck

🪀​Well, his family has the hound Mike protecting their property but he'd probably do himself only a great disfavour by treating you similarly to his family's pet dog considering that you aren't overly fond of being associated with such simple creatures. Overall Killua's reaction is quite laidback though in the face of your unusual heritage, especially since he has made acquaintances with Chimera Ants in his past, some of them truly grotesque in appearance. Your outgoing and playful nature is often a trigger for jealousy if you direct such behavior at anyone else though if it is him you play with he eventually sports a blush all whilst trying to not show how flustered he is. You sleep a lot and Killua abuses that trait of yours for cuddle sessions. Sometimes you don't mind in which case he just happils snuggles up to you without letting go. Other times you seem not interested in affection from his side and make your unwillingness very vocal, essentially breaking his heart a little. Quite sharp with your senses you always know when Killua switches into assassination mode though, especially when someone harrasses you for your features. You know that there is going to be another person missing soon...

Kurapika Kurta

⛓️​You may not be what Kurapika imagined his partner to be when he was little but he is unable to be picky once his obsession has started to gain monentum. Kurapika's overbearing and paranoid behavior is going to be a very bad matchup for you though if you should be someone who values freedom and loves exploring the world outside as he will lock you away. His clan was massacred for their unique eyes and he fears that other Hunters might come after you simply because you are also different than others. Still, Kurapika is no complete fool. His clan was fairly isolated from the outside and he spent the first few years of his life surrounded by nature and animals which means he still remembers how to approach a frightened animal in attempts to win your trust even if his overprotective love sometimes may not allow him to remain patient with you. Your habit of squeezing yourself into narrow spaces for a long nap has led to some panic from his side when he couldn't find you and nearly tore the entire place apart only for your sleep to be disturbed by all the noise which led you to crawl out of whatever crevice you somehow managed to fit in. You enjoy playing with his chains and he often entertains you by letting you.

Illumi Zoldyck

🤎​Illumi with little to no empathy finds himself dehumanising you actively by treating you like you are a literal pet. He doesn't quite know what he is supposed to do with someone like you, only knows what he desires you and wants to own you which has led you to be locked away inside a room filled with cat toys, cat trees and ball of wools. Obviously you are beyond irritated with the situation you find yourself in and you let your short temper and frequent ire out on the few butlers who enter your room as soon as they even attempt to touch you against your will. Whenever Illumi spots those scratch marks he's quite disappointed. Not because he cares about the butlers but more because those wounds show that you do not know how to behave yourself, something he won't tolerate since you are his. Pragmatic as always and as apathetic as ever, Illumi punishes you indeed like one would a bad pet for inappropriate behavior though he is met with a lot of resistance as you try to sink your claws into his skin as well, only adding to the severity of your punishment. If you do not learn how to behave yourself Illumi threatens to use his needles on you to get you to finally be obedient to him.

Chrollo Lucilfer

📖​You're a quite endearing thing. Some may simply underestimate you due to your cat features yet Chrollo is aware that every kitten has their claws as your intuition exceed those of the same fools who dismiss you. You seem to know from the very start that Chrollo is not the person he pretends to be yet instead of shying away your curiosity actively guides you to spend your time with him simply because he fascinates you. A notion that is mutual as he would like to note as both of you walk in circles around each other, trying to figure the other out. The way you arch your back when waking up, your penchant of sleeping in places humans would consider far too uncomfortable and your curious nature are all habits of yours he learns to adore, dark eyes always trailing after you. You love this game going on between the two of you and so does he, utterly captivated by your mischievous charm as he willingly entertains you. After all Chrollo already knows that all of it might be over the moment he finally claims you for himself and takes away your treasured freedom. You'll learn to accept your new life though eventually even if he has to pull your claws if worse comes to worse.

Feitan Portor

☠️​He blames you for it is all your fault that he became as obsessed as he is with you. You move with grace and elegance, every movement of your body captivating his attention as Feitan wonders how that lithesome body of yours would writhe and wriggle if he were to subject you to his torture devices. Confident and sassy, the mere way you carry yourself around seems to infuriate him as he recognises you for the mischievous minx that you are. Oh, you know exactly what you are doing to him, aren't you? Feitan doesn't even hesitate to get rid of those rats who believe that they can get cozy with you though yet his usual sadistic joy is always partially ruined when he remembers that it is because of you that he does all those things. His mind changes though when he one day is lucky witness when you finally reveal your fangs and teeth when someone corners you due to your different features, his body leaning subtly forward as he watches intently how that playful expression turns into a snarl as your claws tear into their flesh, delicious cries of agony filling the air. His only disappointment is that you didn't finish them off but he can do that for you. So you're more than just a little kitten after all.

Shalnark

📱​Shalnark literally can't keep his hands off of his darling. He'd already be a touchy person under normal circumstances but there is something about those pointy ears and fluffy and soft tail that give him even more cuteness aggression. Even if you were to hiss at him or bear your teeth he wouldn't stop, instead cooing at you in a sickenly sweet tone as he ignores your clear warnings that he should stop. That sweet smile can't fool you though as you know that Shalnark is the type to threaten you with a deceivingly bright grin on his face, a cheshire cat in his own way. Lots of scratch marks litter his biceps and arms, all wounds you left when he didn't respect your privacy. Despite his obsession he remains condescending though in slightly more subtle ways. You're after all not completely human, your instincts as your cat largely guiding you and keeping you from seeing the world how it really is. That is why Shalnark plans to keep you safe as he doesn't think of you as capable to look out after yourself. This delusion entails locking you away from the world outside as well as different punishments that will indeed make you feel like he is seeing you as a badly behaved pet than a human being.

Okkotsu Yuta

💍​Yuta absolutely adores his darling but sometimes their playful and sociable nature is a bit too much for his heart to handle, especially since he is so easily flustered. Rika on the other hand is often left jealous as it is quite obvious that Yuta is helplessly infatuated with you and as if you have a death wish you actually approach the curse as your curious nature prevails over apparently your survival instinct. Luckily Rika knows better than to harm you as she knows that otherwise she'd earn herself Yuta's wrath. The bashful look in his eyes, the pink blush on his cheek and the stutter in his voice are nothing short but delightful to you whenever you snuggle yourself closer to him, you love teasing him every chance you get. There is a tinge of shame somewhere within Yuta's heart as you are essentially a weeb's wet dream, a true Neko and there are times where he questions his own morals yet all of that is buried the moment you cuddle up to him. A mixture of possessive selfishness as well as paranoia lead to isolation though as you aren't someone that can just walk through the streets of Tokyo as your existence needs to remind a secret. Please, please please don't hate him for this.

Gojo Satoru

🩵​Satoru is having the time of his life with you. You're the most adorable person he's ever met in his life and he has zero intentions of ever letting you go. He's constantly petting your ears or gently caresses your tail, his hands roaming over your body to find the spots that make you purr. Extreme cuteness aggression as even your anger doesn't seem to faze him which does lead to some serious irritation from your side as you feel like he doesn't take you and your own feelings serious. A theory proven the moment he pinches your cheeks and coos at you with a loving look in his blue eyes. As long as he is around you are unable to take a peaceful nap because the moment you attempt to do so he pounces on you and whines about how cruel you are for depriving him of cuddling with you. It really doesn't matter where you hide as Satoru somehow always finds you, doesn't matter how obscure or narrow the space is you managed to fit in. Your life is restricted to the one big apartment he lives in though, his paranoia deeper than he lets on. Humans, curses, even other sorcerers could endanger you as you belong to neither category, a true loner due to being a Neko and for that at risk of being potentially targeted by all.

[thollandsgirl2013]

𝐁𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝

Parings → Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings → embarrassing situation

Summary → Peter and you get caught by May.

Peter’s sixteenth birthday had been awkward, to say the least.

May had tried her best to make it memorable—she’d baked his favorite cake, gifted him a new Lego set, and even made sure his friends came over earlier to celebrate with him. Everything seemed to be going fine, that is until the last gift came, when everyone left and it's just May and Peter.

“Happy birthday, Peter!” May beamed as she handed him a small, neatly wrapped box. Peter furrowed his brow, curious, looking up at her suspiciously.

“Uh, thanks, May,” he said slowly, already a little concerned. He tore open the wrapping paper and lifted the lid, only for his face to instantly turn beet red.

“Oh my God, May!” He groaned, his eyes wide as he stared down at the contents of the box—condoms. His whole body felt like it was on fire from embarrassment.

May, leaning casually against Peter's study table, had the audacity to smirk. “What? I just want you to be prepared, Peter,” she said, entirely too calm for his liking. “You’re sixteen now, you’re growing up, and I’m not dumb. Boys your age—”

“May!” Peter flailed, waving his hands as if he could physically stop the words from coming out of her mouth. “Please! I don’t even have a girlfriend!”

May tilted her head and gave him a look, one of those all-knowing, teasing looks that made Peter feel like she could read his mind. “Really? You don’t? So, what about Y/n? Weren't you crushing on her? I literally saw you stutter in front of her when she came over at the party.” Her eyebrows wiggled, and Peter wanted to sink into the floor.

Peter’s face turned an even brighter shade of red—if that was possible. “That’s different! I mean… I haven’t even asked her out yet!” He stammered, shuffling his feet awkwardly as he tried not to make eye contact with May. He glanced at the box in his hands and quickly shoved it behind his back, as if doing that would make it all disappear. “This is... so weird.”

May chuckled, walking over to him, and affectionately ruffling his curly hair. “It’s not weird, Peter. It’s called being responsible.” She softened her tone, looking at him with sincere eyes now. “I just want you to be smart about these things when you’re ready. You’ll thank me later.”

Peter groaned, turning away from her as he tossed the box into the drawer of his nightstand like it was a hot potato. “Yeah, yeah. But for the record, I’m not using them anytime soon. Seriously.”

Exactly one week later, Peter found himself standing beside your locker, nervously shifting from one foot to the other as he finally worked up the nerve to ask you out.

---

Now, five months had passed since that nerve-wracking moment when Peter had stammered his way through asking you to be his girlfriend. His hands had been clammy, he couldn’t stop fidgeting, and the carefully rehearsed speech he’d prepared had completely fallen apart when he saw your smile. Somehow, though, despite his stumbling words and flushed cheeks, you’d said yes.

He was convinced his heart had exploded when he heard your response. But there was just one problem.

He still hadn’t told May.

Peter wasn’t actively trying to hide it from her—well, not exactly. He just hadn’t found the right time to bring up the fact that he has a girlfriend. May was great, but he could already imagine the look of teasing glee on her face once she found out, and that thought alone made his stomach twist into knots. So, for now, sneaking around felt… easier. Plus, it wasn’t like he was lying. Well, not much. May thought he was out on patrol today, but instead, he was spending the afternoon with you.

Meanwhile, May was blissfully unaware of Peter’s real plans for the day. She was lounging at home, sipping coffee, when she decided she might as well tidy up his room. After all, Peter was always too busy with school, work, and Spider-Man duties to keep up with it himself. Humming to herself, she stepped into his messy room.

“That boy never cleans,” May muttered under her breath, shaking her head as she picked up discarded clothes from the floor and tossed them into a laundry basket.

As she straightened his bed, something caught her eye—something dark and out of place, sticking out of his closet. Frowning, she walked over to investigate, pulling the item free from the shelf.

A black lacy bra.

May blinked. “What the…?” She stared at it in confusion, her mind racing. When did Peter start collecting bras? No, that can’t be it. Does Peter have a girlfriend? She squinted at the bra, trying to piece things together.

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise, but as she processed it further, her eyes darted toward Peter’s nightstand. A sudden memory surfaced—the box of condoms she’d given Peter on his sixteenth birthday. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she pulled the drawer open, her stomach in knots.

There it was.

The box, which had once been full, now contained only two condoms. May stood there, staring down at it in disbelief.

“Oh boy…” she muttered to herself, exhaling sharply. She didn’t know whether to be angry that Peter hadn’t told her or relieved that at least he was being safe. Either way, her emotions swirled between concern and amusement. He’s really growing up, she thought, but her protective instincts kicking in.

May sat down on the edge of Peter’s bed, running a hand through her hair. “We’re going to need to have a talk,” she whispered to herself, trying to think of how to approach the conversation. She didn’t want to embarrass him more than necessary, but she also couldn’t ignore this.

Just as she was about to step out of the room, she heard the front door creak open. Voices, low and hushed, floated through the hallway.

Peter and you stumbled inside, locked in a heated kiss. Peter’s hands were wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer as you giggled into his lips. You barely broke away long enough to whisper, “You sure May isn’t home?”

“She’s at FEAST, don’t worry,” Peter reassured you, his voice rough and breathless as his lips moved down to your neck.

You chuckled, running your fingers through his curls. “Good, because I’ve been waiting all day for this…”

Suddenly, a voice boomed through the house, cutting through the heat of the moment like a knife. “PETER BENJAMIN PARKER!”

Both of you froze in place, your lips barely an inch apart. Peter’s eyes widened in horror as he recognized the voice.

“May,” he whispered, his blood running cold. You quickly pulled away, your face flushed with embarrassment.

May stood at the doorway to Peter’s room, her hands on her hips, her expression a mix of fury and disbelief. The bra dangled from her hand like a smoking gun.

Peter gulped. “I-I can explain.”

May raised an eyebrow, stepping into the room. “Oh, I’m sure you can,” she said, her voice dangerously calm. “But first, care to explain this?” She held up the bra, her gaze shifting between you and Peter.

You winced, your cheeks turning bright red as you avoided eye contact. Peter, however, was already spiraling into full-blown panic mode.

“Okay, okay, listen, May! It’s not—it’s not what you think!” Peter stammered, holding his hands up defensively. “We didn’t… I mean, it’s not like… we just…”

May crossed her arms, tapping her foot impatiently. “Oh really? So you’re telling me this bra just magically appeared in your closet? Why didn't you tell me?”

Peter sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I… I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to make things awkward. Y/n and I have been dating for five months, but—”

“Five months?” May interrupted, her eyes widening. “Five months, and you didn’t think to tell me?”

You finally found the courage to speak up. “It’s not Peter’s fault, May. We just… wanted to keep things low-key.”

May’s expression softened, but only slightly. “Low-key doesn’t mean sneaking around behind my back.” She sighed, rubbing her temples. “And don’t think I didn’t notice this either.” She motioned to the condom box.

Peter groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Oh God, this is the worst day of my life.”

May shook her head, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth despite her frustration. “It’s not the worst, Peter. Trust me, I’ve seen worse. But we’re going to have a conversation about this.”

Peter’s head shot up, his face paling. “Oh no, not the talk. May, I’m almost seventeen, please—”

“Exactly, you’re almost seventeen, and that’s why you need this talk.” May’s tone was firm but caring. She turned to you with a sigh.

You shifted awkwardly on your feet, glancing toward the door, clearly wanting to flee. But before you could make your escape, May held up a hand, stopping you in your tracks.

“Y/n, stay,” May said firmly, though her voice softened a little. “You’re a part of this too, and I need to make sure you’re okay as well.” She glanced between you and Peter, concern etched on her face.

Peter shot you a helpless look, his eyes wide and pleading. You swallowed nervously and nodded, stepping back to Peter’s side, feeling the heat rush to your face.

May took a deep breath, pulling out the desk chair and sitting down. “Alright. First of all, Peter, you should’ve told me about you two. I’m not mad you’re dating Y/n. What I’m mad about is the sneaking around.”

Peter winced. “I know, I should’ve… I just didn’t know how to bring it up, and I thought… I thought it might make things weird.”

May shook her head. “Peter, I’m your aunt, not your enemy. I’m not here to make things difficult for you. But sneaking around, lying about where you’re going… I’m not okay with that.”

Peter hung his head. “I’m sorry, May. I didn’t mean to—”

“I’m not done,” May interrupted, raising a hand. She then turned to you, her expression softening. “And Y/n, I hope you understand that you’re important to Peter—and that means you’re important to me, too. I’m not mad at you either, but I do need to talk to both of you about… boundaries.”

You felt your face go hot again, but you nodded. “I understand. I just didn’t want to make things awkward with you.”

May gave you a small, understanding smile. “I appreciate that, but what I really care about is that both of you are being responsible. I see you found a way to use those condoms I gave Peter.”

Peter made a noise somewhere between a groan and a whimper, covering his face with both hands. “May, please, no,” he muttered, absolutely mortified.

May ignored his protest and pressed on. “Look, I get it—you’re teenagers, you’re curious, and you have feelings for each other. But I need to know that you’re both being careful and not rushing into anything you’re not ready for.”

Peter peeked through his fingers, his face still flushed. “We’re being careful. I swear.” He shot a glance at you, making sure you were okay with what he was saying.

You nodded in agreement. “Yeah, we are. We didn’t… it’s not like we’re rushing into anything. We’ve just been… taking our time.”

May looked between the two of you, nodding slowly. “Okay. That’s good to hear. But just so we’re clear, I’m always here if you have questions or concerns. I’d rather you talk to me about things than hide them.”

Peter dropped his hands to his sides, his shoulders sagging in relief. “Okay. We get it, May. No more secrets.”

May’s expression softened further as she stood and approached the two of you. “Good. I trust you, Peter. And you, Y/n.” She gave you a gentle pat on the arm before turning to Peter, raising an eyebrow. “But if I ever find something like this again without knowing what’s going on…” She held up the bra, waving it slightly. “…we’re having another talk. And it won’t be as nice.”

Peter winced, his face burning with embarrassment. “Got it. Loud and clear.”

May sighed and placed the bra back into your hands. “Here, you should take this with you, Y/n. I don’t think Peter needs to be holding onto it any longer.”

You let out a nervous laugh, grabbing it and stuffing it into your bag as fast as you could. “Thanks, May. I’ll… uh, make sure it doesn’t end up here again.”

Peter groaned, rubbing his face. “Please, can we stop talking about the bra now?”

May chuckled, shaking her head. “Alright, alright, I’ll stop torturing you.”

Just then, the sound of May’s phone buzzing broke the tension. She pulled it from her pocket and glanced at the screen. “Looks like I’ve got to head back to FEAST. They need me for something.” She looked back at the two of you, her tone softening. “Just… think about what I said, okay? Be smart. Be responsible.”

Peter nodded quickly, clearly eager for this conversation to be over. “We will, May. Thanks.”

With one last look at you both, May gave a nod and headed toward the door. “I’ll be back later tonight. Don’t get into any more trouble while I’m gone.”

As the door closed behind her, Peter let out a long breath, slumping down on his bed in defeat. “Oh my God,” he groaned, staring up at the ceiling. “That was the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You giggled softly, sitting down beside him and nudging his shoulder. “Well… at least she wasn’t that mad.”

Peter looked at you, his lips twitching into a small smile. “Yeah, I guess. But seriously, how am I ever going to look her in the eye again?”

You laughed and leaned over, kissing him gently on the cheek. “You’ll survive. Besides, now that she knows, we don’t have to sneak around anymore.”

Peter’s eyes lit up at the thought, a mischievous grin forming on his face. “That’s true. We could… take advantage of that.”

You raised an eyebrow, playfully nudging him again. “Oh really? After that talk we just had?”

Peter chuckled, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you closer. “Well, maybe not right after,” he teased, pressing his forehead against yours.

You laughed, resting your head against his chest as you both lay back on the bed. For a moment, everything was peaceful, the tension from earlier melting away. Peter stroked your hair gently, his breath steady and calm.

“Thanks for staying,” he murmured, his voice soft.

You smiled, your hand resting on his chest as you looked up at him. “Of course. We’re in this together.”

Peter pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment. “Yeah. Together.”

“Oh no,” Peter muttered, his face paling.

You blinked, sitting up beside him. “What? What’s wrong?”

Peter groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Did she take the condoms?”

You raised an eyebrow, confused. “Why?”

Peter bit his lip nervously and looked at you, cheeks flushing. “She’s out… so, maybe we could c-continue what we planned.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, leaning over and kissing him on the cheek. “Peter…”

‎∗ ࣪ ˖༺ 𓆩☆𓆪 ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

[batsovergotham]

the fight for yourself pt1

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

Main!Mark Grayson x Spider-Woman! Reader

warnings: SMUT IMPROPER USE OF WEBBING LOLLLL, some angst with comfort, biting/scratching in a sexy way mark gets TORE UP, not many warnings this chapter honestly

w/c: 13.8k

a/n: yall this is so nasty im so sorry. lmk ur thoughts in my inbox or in the comments!

The lab feels too clean for what they’re dealing with. Too bright. Too clinical. The hum of the machines does nothing to cut through the heaviness that’s been hanging in both their chests since this started. Since the last time either of them saw you.

Mark hasn’t spoken in a while. He’s standing beside the containment unit, arms crossed tight against his chest, staring at the sliver of symbiote floating in reinforced glass. It twitches. Almost like it knows. Like it can sense his stare and wants him to know it's aware.

Harry’s at the terminal, half-slumped in the chair, scrolling through neuro-response data with the hollow-eyed focus of someone way past the verge of burnout. His reading glasses are slipping again, but he doesn’t bother correcting them.

It’s late. Feels later than it is. That odd silence in the air, the kind that only exists when everything’s going apart in slow motion.

“She always hated this place,” Mark admits, finally. His voice is calm. 

Harry doesn’t glance away from the screen. “Said it smelled like melted plastic and burnt batteries.”

Mark gives a weak, humorless smile. “Yeah. And you always reassured her it was just her being dramatic.”

“She was being dramatic,” Harry adds, and for a second there’s almost a warmth to it. Then it fades. “Doesn’t mean she was wrong.”

Mark moves a little closer to the glass. Watches the symbiote twitch again, just slightly, like a muscle reacting to a nerve it shouldn’t have. “It reacts more when I’m in here.”

Harry peeks over his shoulder. “It’s reacting to her memories of you. The bond’s still active. The parts of her that aren’t utterly overwhelmed, they remember you. That’s why it spikes.”

Mark swallows, throat tight. “I said her name during the fight. She stopped. I got close and she…she flinched. Just for a second. I don’t know if it was her or the symbiote reacting, but it felt like her. Like she was there underneath it.”

“She is,” Harry adds. No doubt. No hesitation. “I’d bet my life on it.”

Mark stares at him. “You already kind of are.”

Harry exhales, sits back in the chair. “She’s my best friend. You think I’m not scared too?”

There’s silence. The kind that doesn’t need to be filled.

“You’ve known her way longer than I have,” Mark replies eventually.

Harry gives him a dry look. “Since kindergarten. I’ve seen every version of her. Angry. Awkward. Sleep-deprived and overcaffeinated. I saw her fall asleep during a Star Wars marathon and debate in her sleep over the Sequels continuity.” His voice softens. “And I’ve never seen her like this.”

Mark nods slowly. He pushes a hand to the glass, cautious not to approach too close. “She told me she was fine. She always says she’s fine.”

“She says she’s fine when she’s falling apart,” Harry mutters. “That’s just how she works. She hides it until she can’t.”

“She told me to stay away,” Mark says. “But it wasn’t her voice. Not really. The words were hers, but they felt wrong. Like she was saying something she didn’t believe.”

Harry scratches the side of his face, palm dragging across fatigued skin. “That thing twists people. It emphasizes the worst parts. Regret. Anger. Fear. Makes you think you’re better off alone. Makes you believe the lies it whispers. And the stronger the host? The tougher it is to pull them out.”

“She’s not just strong,” Mark remarks. “She’s stubborn. You know how many disagreements we’ve had about who gets to carry the grocery bags? She once threw a baguette at me because I wouldn’t let her take the heaviest ones.”

“She told me that story. Swore you cried.”

“I didn’t cry.”

“Okay.”

“I didn’t.”

Harry only smiles tiredly and stands up. Walks over to the drawer beside the table and unlocks it. He brings out the little frequency emitter they’ve been working on. It’s nasty, cobbled together, still warm from the last calibration. He sets it on the table between them.

“It’s not perfect,” Harry says. “But it’s tuned to the cortical wave patterns the symbiote syncs with. If you come close, trigger this, it might relax its hold. Not enough to separate her totally. But maybe enough to help her push through.”

Mark investigates it. He doesn’t touch it yet. “You think she’ll come back?”

“I think if she knows you’re still fighting for her, she’ll try.”

“She’s not some damsel in distress,” Mark mutters.

“No, she’s not,” Harry says. “But she’s hurting. And the second she thinks she’s a burden, she shuts down. You know that.”

Mark nods again, slower this time. “Yeah. I know.”

Silence again. Mark finally picks up the device, feels the weight of it in his hand. Not much. But it feels heavier than it seems.

“I haven’t eaten since yesterday,” he mutters.

Harry stretches, lets out a moan. “Pretty sure I’m running on coffee and spite. And whatever’s left of that protein bar I found under my keyboard.”

Mark stares toward the door. Then back at Harry. “You wanna grab something?”

Harry pauses. Then smirks. “You read my mind.”

“I was thinking the dumpling place.”

“You mean the one with the suspiciously sticky floors and the koi pond that smells like gasoline?”

“She loved that place.”

Harry grins, nostalgic and a little wounded. “Yeah. Said the grease calmed her soul.”

“She made me go there after my first patrol injury. She didn’t know though. She swore the hot and sour soup had healing properties.”

“She told me that too. Said it was old wisdom.”

“She made it up on the spot, didn’t she?”

“Absolutely.”

Mark pockets the device and gets his coat. Harry does the same. They proceed toward the door, neither of them speaking much now. The lab powers down behind them, monitors dimming, the containment unit humming softly as the symbiote slithers weakly within its tank.

Outside, the city is gloomy and rainy. The air smells like frying oil and approaching rain. The walk is silent, but not heavy. Just two people pushing forward, shoulder to shoulder, trying not to look over their shoulders for the version of you they’re both hoping to save.

They turn the corner, and the neon sign of the Chinese place flickers into view. Half the letters are out. A cat statue gestures lazily from the window.

It isn’t pretty.

But it’s the spot you used to call your “aftercare restaurant.” The one you always said felt like home after a difficult day.

So they head inside.

The inside of the restaurant smells exactly how it always has. Burnt oil. Garlic. That oddly comforting mix of overcooked rice and soy sauce that clings to the air and your clothes long after you leave. The lights hum overhead, flickering every now and then, and the plastic menus on the wall are still faded from sun exposure and bad decisions.

Mark stands at the counter, scanning the menu like he doesn’t already know what you’d want. You always ordered the same thing. He still gets it, like maybe if he does it all exactly how you would have, it’ll bring you closer somehow.

Harry stands beside him, leaning against the cold drink fridge. His hands are stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie, and he’s staring at nothing, eyes unfocused.

“Pick-up,” Mark says when the guy behind the counter asks.

The man nods, rings them up, and disappears into the back kitchen without a word.

They grab a sticky booth near the window while they wait, the one you used to insist had the “most spiritual dumpling energy” even though it was just next to the fish tank that always smelled like pennies and algae.

Mark sits back against the wall, arms crossed. Harry drapes himself across the other bench with a low sigh, eyes half-lidded.

“She used to drag me here after every exam,” Harry says eventually, voice quiet.

Mark laughs under his breath. “Sounds about right.”

They go quiet again, the air between them filled with something that isn’t awkward but isn’t exactly easy, either. Just full of memories that won’t sit still.

Harry looks toward the kitchen, then back at Mark. “You remember her Oscorp panel?”

Mark doesn’t answer right away. He shifts a little, eyes narrowing slightly. “Yeah. I remember.”

“She was so nervous she forgot half her notes, but then she got up there and just… turned it on. Started talking like she owned the whole damn company.”

“She did,” Mark mutters.

Harry smiles at that. “Yeah. They put her up front with the engineers. Treated her like she already worked there.”

Mark leans his arms on the table. “You were sitting with the higher-ups. I got to sit in the front.”

“You looked like you wanted to break the podium in half.”

Mark glances up, sighs. “I wasn’t mad at her. I was just... watching the way she lit up around you. You made her laugh in that easy way. You knew all the inside jokes. The science stuff. I didn’t. I guess I felt like an outsider. Like she had this whole life with you I’d never be part of.”

Harry’s voice is quieter now. “She told me that night that you felt off. That something was eating at you.”

Mark lifts an eyebrow. “She did?”

Harry nods. “Yeah. Said you were acting weird. Kept fiddling with your jacket sleeves. Wouldn’t look her in the eye.”

Mark groans. “She noticed that?”

“She notices everything. Always has.”

Mark sits back again, a little overwhelmed at the memory. “That was the night she told me I didn’t have to be anyone else for her.”

Harry hums. “I figured something happened when I saw her the next morning. She was smiling at her phone like it was glowing.”

Mark gives him a look. “She told me she trusted me.”

Harry grins, teeth showing. “Yeah. I heard.”

Mark freezes. “Wait, what?”

Harry shrugs way too casually. “Walls in that hotel were paper thin, man. I had headphones in, and I still heard enough to regret not crashing at my place.”

Mark covers his face with his hand. “Oh my God.”

“She said it with such conviction, too. Like she was mid-epiphany.” Harry chuckles. “Honestly, good for you. She sounded happy.”

Mark lowers his hand, flushed but smiling. “She was. That’s the part I can’t get out of my head. She was happy.”

“She was safe,” Harry adds. “She chose that with you.”

The silence that follows is quieter. Not as heavy as before. Just reflective.

The guy at the counter finally calls out, “Order up!”

Mark stands to grab the bags. It’s heavier than he expected. Garlic noodles. Dumplings. Hot and sour soup. Way more food than they need. But it feels right.

Harry watches him return. “Still ordering like she’s about to walk through the door.”

Mark shrugs. “She hated when I under-ordered.”

They step out into the cold night air, the bag steaming between them. The city smells like wet concrete and fried garlic. Familiar. Tired.

As they walk, Mark speaks again, voice lower this time. “I think the thing that’s hardest right now… is how quiet it is.”

Harry looks over. “What do you mean?”

“She used to fill every space. With noise. Jokes. Questions. Random facts she knew I wouldn’t care about but told me anyway.”

“Once she told me the entire history of paperclip design to me on the subway.”

Mark laughs. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

They keep walking.

“She’s not gone,” Mark says suddenly. “Not completely. I felt her last time. Just for a second. I know it was her.”

“I believe you.”

Mark nods, clutching the food bag tighter. “I have to. Because I don’t know what I’ll do if I’m wrong.”

Harry doesn’t offer false comfort. Just walks beside him.

“She’s in there,” he says. “You’ll find her.”

Back at the lab, the warmth of the food doesn’t linger long.

The lights buzz overhead, sterile and too bright. The second the door seals behind them, it’s like all the comfort drains out of the air. Just static hums and white light and the quiet breathing of machines monitoring something that should not exist.

Mark sets the takeout bag on the nearest table and shrugs off his jacket. Harry tosses his hoodie across the back of a stool and cracks open a dumpling container like it’s muscle memory.

The lab smells like soy sauce now, mingled with metal and electronics. It’s a weird mix, but not unwelcome.

Neither of them says much at first. Just quiet eating. Grease soaking through cardboard. Forks scraping plastic lids. Mark sits with one elbow propped on the edge of the table, chewing slowly, eyes drifting toward the containment chamber in the corner. The symbiote hasn’t moved much since they left, but it never really sleeps. It just waits.

After a while, Harry sets his chopsticks down and leans back in his seat.

“Ben used to bring me to a place like that, you know. Not this exact place, but one just like it. Greasy. Cheap. Weird smell in the carpet. He always tipped too much.”

Mark looks over at him, surprised. “I didn’t know that.”

Harry shrugs. “I didn’t talk about him a lot after he died. Still don’t, usually. Just… kind of came back to me tonight.”

Mark nods, quiet. “I was at his funeral. I didn’t really know him, but... I came for her.”

Harry gives a small, knowing smile. “Yeah. I remember.”

Mark leans forward a little. “She talked about him like he was a saint. Said he had this way of making everything feel okay, even when it wasn’t.”

“He did.” Harry folds his arms, eyes distant now. “He wasn’t a genius. Didn’t invent anything. But he was good. He was consistent. Always showed up. Even when he was tired. Even when it was hard.”

Mark listens. Doesn’t interrupt.

“He used to say,” Harry continues, “that loving people meant showing up on the days you didn’t want to. The days when it would be easier to leave. You had to choose it. Again and again.”

Mark stares at the floor for a moment. “She said something like that to me once. After our first big fight.”

“I remember that,” Harry says. “She called me after. Said she didn’t want to push you away like she always did with people who mattered.”

Mark smiles faintly. “She told me she was bad at feelings. I told her that was fine, because I was worse.”

Harry laughs quietly. “God, you were so awkward when you first started dating.”

Mark makes a face. “Thanks.”

“I mean it in a good way. You were awkward because you cared. You were trying. And she noticed. That’s what mattered to her.”

Mark’s quiet again, then speaks. “I didn’t know Ben. Not really. But I saw what losing him did to her. How she held onto his words like they were important. Like if she remembered him the right way, she wouldn’t fall apart.”

“She didn’t,” Harry says. “She cracked, but she didn’t break.”

Mark nods slowly. “He must’ve been a hell of a person.”

“He was,” Harry says. “He wasn’t perfect, but he never pretended to be. He just... showed up. Every day. That was enough.”

Mark’s eyes drift toward the prototype emitter resting beside the food containers. It’s silent now, but heavy with potential.

“I don’t know if I’m enough,” he says after a beat. “But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Harry glances over at him, then looks toward the symbiote containment chamber, where the sample stirs faintly in the corner of its glass cell.

“She’s still in there,” Harry says. “And when you bring her back, she’s gonna remember who stayed.”

They fall quiet again.

Mark pops open one of the dumpling boxes and nudges it across the table toward Harry. “You think she’d kill us if she knew we were eating her emergency comfort food without her?”

Harry smirks. “Oh, absolutely. We’d be dead men.”

Mark leans back in his chair. “Guess we’ll just have to bring her back so she can yell at us.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

They finish the meal in silence. Not the heavy kind this time. Just quiet. Restful. For the first time in days, the lab doesn’t feel like a prison. It feels like a place they might actually win.

Because you’re still in there. And they’re still here.

It’s late. The kind of late that feels hollow.

Harry’s been asleep for a while now, curled on the cot in the corner with his hoodie pulled halfway over his face. His breathing is deep and even, the kind you only get after days without rest. Mark had watched him drift off, arms crossed and head back against the wall like he didn’t even trust the bed at first. But the moment he’d stopped thinking, his body gave out.

Now it’s just Mark, the buzz of overhead lights, and the low hum of the machines that never shut off.

The lab always feels colder after midnight. Not in temperature. Just in tone. The equipment all glows a little too white, the shadows all stretch too long, and the containment unit in the corner looks more like a coffin than a tank.

Mark’s still seated at one of the lab terminals. He hasn't touched the emitter in over an hour. It sits on the table beside an empty container of dumplings and a cooling cup of untouched tea.

He’s been idly flipping through files on your drive. At first, it was just an excuse to stay awake. Something to do with his hands. A task. But then he found a folder buried deeper in the archive, beneath chemical formula spreadsheets and prototype render logs.

"Voice Archives_2ndDrive_BACKUP"

No dates. No proper titles. Just a list of unassuming audio logs named after things like test log three, lecture replay, don’t play this harry, and then one that catches his eye.

"audio_log_4_chemstudy_maybe_delete"

He hesitates. His hand hovers over the play button. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s just you saying ionic bond structures or leaving reminders about forgotten assignments. But the file name. The “maybe delete,” you always wrote that when you were too flustered to commit to saving something real.

He taps play.

The audio crackles. It’s faint at first. Then there’s a soft shuffle of fabric and the unmistakable sound of your voice, rushed and nervous and trying too hard to sound casual.

“Okay. Test. Voice memo. Delete this later. Or don’t. I don’t know.”

Mark’s lips part just slightly. Then, off-mic and immediately recognizable, comes Harry’s voice.

“Definitely don’t.”

You groan. Loudly. “Oh my god, I told you to leave.”

“I live here,” Harry says, far too pleased with himself. “And this is, like, top-tier radio content.”

Mark smiles before he realizes he’s doing it. He can see the scene in his head like it’s a home video. You on your bed with your hair a mess, clutching your phone, probably in pajama shorts and a hoodie three sizes too big. Harry sitting backwards on your desk chair, legs sprawled out like a cat, refusing to leave.

There’s some muffled shuffling. You covering the mic. Then your voice again, quieter this time. Embarrassed. Still laced with nerves.

“Okay. So. Here’s the thing. I think I… might like the guy I’ve been tutoring.”

Mark freezes.

“I don’t know why,” you continue. “He’s late to every single session. He writes his lab notes like he’s being hunted. I don’t even think he knows what stoichiometry is.”

Harry snorts in the background. “You should’ve charged him double.”

“He paid me in french fries.”

Mark feels heat climb up the back of his neck. That was real. He remembers that. He didn’t have cash on him, and you were cold that day, so he offered you the rest of his fries while you worked through a problem on the notes. You didn’t say anything at the time. Just took one and kept explaining like nothing had changed. But he remembers the way your mouth twitched afterward. Like you were trying not to smile.

“He’s kind of annoying,” you go on, your voice quick now, like you’re racing past your own hesitation. “Like, he talks through my explanations. He makes terrible jokes about chemical bonds and thinks ‘molarity’ sounds like a Pokémon. But he listens. Like, really listens. He pretends he’s not paying attention, but then he’ll ask something halfway smart and ruin my whole sense of superiority.”

There’s a pause.

Mark’s hand curls tighter on the edge of the desk.

You exhale a laugh in the recording, and it’s that version of your laugh, the one you had before all this. The one that crept up on you and made your nose wrinkle.

“I don’t know. He gave me his fries. And looked at me like I wasn’t invisible. I think… I think I like him.”

Harry groans dramatically. “Wow. Emotional maturity. Look at you.”

“Shut up,” you groan, louder this time. “I’m deleting this.”

“You better not. You’ll want to play this back and cringe someday.”

“I’m already cringing.”

Then quieter. Just barely above a whisper.

“But yeah. I think I like him. A lot more than I planned.”

Click.

The file ends.

Mark just sits there.

The room feels even quieter now. Like everything has sucked inward, like the gravity in the lab has shifted, pulled down around that tiny moment frozen in your voice.

You didn’t know who he was then. Not really. You were just tutoring some clueless guy who couldn’t do basic chemistry but made you feel like you weren’t just another name in a crowded classroom.

And you liked him anyway.

Not because of the suit. Not because he saved the world. Because he listened when it counted. Because he split his fries with you without thinking. Because he looked at you like you were someone worth seeing.

Mark drags a hand down his face.

Then he reaches over and replays the file. Just once.

This time, he closes his eyes while it plays. Tries to remember how your voice used to sound before the screaming started. Before Venom took hold. Before your words turned sharp and careful and your touch disappeared into black.

When it ends again, he rests his head in his hands and breathes deep.

You’re still in there.

You have to be.

And he’s going to find you. Not because you were perfect. Not because you were strong. But because in a world full of secrets, you saw him first.

And it’s his turn now.

The file ends. Again.

Mark doesn’t move.

The cursor on the terminal blinks softly, waiting for input. A blue glow spills across his hands, the floor, the crumpled napkin beside him. He should close the file. Delete it. Turn off the monitor. Do something.

But he just sits there, hunched over the desk, shoulders curled inward like he’s trying to make himself small.

Behind him, the cot creaks.

He hears it, but doesn’t turn.

Then Harry’s voice, soft. Not groggy. Not surprised.

“…You found that one, huh?”

Mark doesn’t look back. “Yeah.”

Harry sits up slowly. The cot rustles again. A beat of silence.

“She recorded it on a Thursday,” he says. “We’d just finished reorganizing her bookshelf because she said the uneven heights were ‘disrupting her sense of personal balance.’”

Mark huffs through his nose. “That sounds right.”

“She made me promise not to listen to it until she left the room. So, of course, I did.”

Mark finally glances over his shoulder.

Harry’s hair is sticking up, eyes heavy with sleep, but his voice is steady now. A little too steady. He grabs the hoodie beside him, shrugs it back on.

“You okay?” he asks.

Mark turns back toward the screen. “Not really.”

Another pause. Longer this time. Harry moves closer, standing beside the desk now but not sitting.

“I didn’t know she liked me back then,” Mark says quietly. “Not for real. She joked around, gave me hell during tutoring, but I thought... I don’t know. I thought I was just another assignment she took pity on.”

Harry exhales slowly. “She had a type. Quiet overthinkers with disaster energy.”

Mark gives a weak smile.

“I didn’t even know she noticed me,” he adds, voice lower now. “And then I hear that. Her voice. Saying she liked me. Like it was obvious. Like I was the last one to know.”

Harry leans against the edge of the desk. “You weren’t. She fought it. For a long time. Thought liking you would make things messier.”

“They did,” Mark says. “We got messy. But I’d do it again. All of it.”

“I know.”

Mark closes the screen gently. The monitor goes dark.

“She sounded so... young,” he says. “Like she didn’t know how to hold it all yet.”

“She didn’t,” Harry replies. “But she figured it out. With you.”

Silence again. The soft hum of the lab, the occasional beeping of the containment unit, the symbiote twitching faintly in its glass prison.

Harry nudges the container of leftover soup with his knuckle. “You think she’s still in there?”

Mark’s eyes don’t move from the screen. “Yeah. And she’s gonna hate that I heard this.”

“Probably,” Harry agrees. “But maybe not as much as you think.”

Mark finally stands up, stretching his legs. His movements are stiff, careful. Like if he breathes too hard, the moment will collapse.

“I’ve gotta get her back.”

“You will,” Harry says. Then, after a pause, “Want me to run another check on the emitter while you eat something that isn’t memory-flavored heartbreak?”

Mark manages a tired laugh. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Harry walks away, and Mark just watches the screen. The quiet still hangs in the room. But for the first time in days, it doesn’t feel empty. It feels like someone’s still here.

It’s been almost an hour since Harry left.

The lab is empty again. Dark, quiet, cold in the way only fluorescent-lit spaces can be at three in the morning. Every corner hums like it's thinking. The containment unit hasn’t moved. But Mark’s been watching it anyway.

He’s not tired. He should be. But his body hasn’t caught up to his mind in days. He’s still in yesterday’s clothes. There’s a half-empty water bottle on the table and the remains of lo mein in a styrofoam container that neither he nor Harry touched once they got back.

The only thing that still feels alive in the room is the blinking cursor on the monitor.

Mark stares at it. He scrolls back to the audio terminal. His fingers hover above the keyboard, then lower. He opens a new file. No title. Just a blank field waiting to be filled.

He hesitates.

Then presses record.

There’s silence at first. A long one. You can hear the low whine of the ventilation system. The faint click of his fingers flexing against the desk. He doesn’t talk for almost a full ten seconds. He just breathes.

Then finally,

“Hey.”

It’s not strong. It’s not confident. It’s hesitant, like the word feels too small for the weight behind it.

“I guess that’s dumb. Starting with ‘hey.’ Like this is some voicemail you’re gonna pick up later and laugh at. But I don’t know how else to start.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

"You’re probably not even gonna hear this. And yeah, I know that. This isn’t some big dramatic message with some perfect ending. It’s just me talking into nothing, because honestly? I don’t know what else to do."

His voice dips a little. Not cracking. Just lower.

“I found one of your old recordings tonight. One of the voice memos you stashed in your backup files. The one you never deleted. The one where you talked about tutoring me.”

He smiles, barely. His fingers tap the side of the terminal.

“You called me annoying. Said I didn’t know what stoichiometry was. Which... fair. I didn’t.”

His smile fades a little.

“But you also said you liked me.”

The words hang in the air, heavier than they should be.

“I didn’t know that. Not then. Not really. You were so, God, you were so hard to read. I thought I was imagining it. That there was no way you, of all people, would actually like me.”

He shifts in the chair. You can hear the creak of metal. The way he leans forward. Resting his elbows on the desk. Pressing his palms flat.

“You didn’t know what I was back then. I was just some guy who couldn’t remember where he left his notebook and kept trying to trade answers for soggy fries. But you talked to me like I mattered. You looked at me like I wasn’t invisible.”

His voice softens.

"You didn’t fall for some hero. Hell, you didn’t even fall for someone who had his shit together. You fell for me. The kid who couldn’t sit still in the chem lab. The one who asked dumb questions just to hear you talk a little longer."

Another silence. This one longer.

“I miss your voice.”

It’s quiet. Honest. Unforgiving.

"I miss all of it. Even the dumb stuff. You getting annoyed. You calling me an idiot when I made you laugh. You talking about something you cared about and me just… sitting there, watching you like a lovesick idiot."

A shaky breath.

“I miss you. Not who you’ve become. Not the thing that’s wearing your face and using your hands and talking like it’s still you. You. The version that used to fall asleep during movies and drool on my shoulder. The version that pulled me out of my own head when I got stuck thinking about everything I couldn’t fix.”

His hand curls into a fist on the desk.

“I don’t know how much of you is left. I don’t know how much that thing has taken. But I have to believe you’re still in there. I have to believe that you’re fighting, even if it’s quiet. Even if it’s just some tiny flicker of you trapped underneath all of it.”

A pause. Then,

“If this thing doesn’t work... if the emitter doesn’t bring you back... I just want you to know this. I love you. Not because you were perfect. Not because you were fearless. But because you let me be myself around you. Because you made it feel possible to just be, without apologizing for it.”

Another breath. Unsteady this time.

“I don’t want to hurt you. I never did. That’s why I didn’t tell you the truth sooner. About what I was. Who I was. I thought I was protecting you.”

He lets out a soft, humorless laugh.

“Guess I didn’t do such a great job, huh?”

His voice falls quiet again. Then,

"I’m coming for you. With whatever this busted thing is that Harry swears will work. And when I get there, I’m talking to you like you never left. Because I have to believe hearing me will be enough to bring you back."

His eyes flick toward the containment chamber again. Just a glance. But his jaw tenses.

“And if it’s not... if you really are gone... then I’m still going to try. Because I’d rather be the guy who couldn’t save you than the one who didn’t even try.”

He closes his eyes. You can almost hear the words he doesn’t say. Then finally, his voice drops to a near whisper.

“And for what it’s worth... if you ever hear this, if you ever come back, my fries are still yours.”

He reaches out and hits stop. The file saves automatically. No dramatic name. Just a timestamp. Just the silence that follows.

Mark sits there for a long time, staring at the screen. Like maybe your voice will come through the speakers next. Like maybe, if he waits long enough, the dark will answer back.

But it doesn’t. Just the whir of machines. The containment unit pulsing quietly in the distance. Still. Watching. And he stays there, long after the recording ends, because sometimes love is saying the things you should’ve said out loud, even if no one’s left to hear them.

The lab feels heavier now.

Not louder. Not colder. Just heavier. Like time itself is leaning on everything. The way chairs creak when you shift. The way your shoulders start to round after hours sitting still. The way your heartbeat slows down just enough to feel it.

Mark’s still at the terminal.

The message he recorded is saved. Labeled. Backed up. The screen is dim now, displaying a sleep-mode screensaver that drifts slowly in hypnotic patterns, tiny rotating Oscorp schematics floating like constellations across a sea of digital black.

He hasn’t moved in almost an hour. Maybe more.

The chair is starting to dig into his spine, but he doesn’t get up. The curve of his neck is sore. His elbow has gone a little numb from where he’s been resting it against the desk. His eyes are dry. Not from crying. Just from staring too long.

He blinks once. Slow. Then again. Slower this time. Somewhere across the room, a light on the symbiote containment unit flickers. He should look. He doesn’t.

He leans forward, just a little. Forehead brushing his forearm, folded on the desk. Just for a second. Just to breathe.

His body is telling him what he won’t say out loud: that he’s exhausted. That no amount of caffeine or stubbornness is going to keep him upright forever. That he’s been running on fumes since the last time he saw you.

He closes his eyes. Just for a second. Just to rest.

When he opens them again, the world has changed.

There’s noise. Warm, living noise. Laughter. Music. Voices. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds. The sound of footsteps on carpet, rolling carts, camera shutters clicking, someone yelling “free pins with any poster.”

He’s standing in the middle of a convention hall.

The lights are too bright. The air smells like soft pretzels, marker ink, and sweat. There’s a kid running past dressed like an anime character with three swords strapped to his back. Someone in a full Iron Man suit is doing finger guns at a family of cosplayers.

And you’re beside him. Wearing that ridiculous homemade cape.

You’ve got your badge around your neck, a giant tote bag slung over your shoulder, and your hair pulled back in a way that says you were too busy getting excited this morning to care about style. Your hands are full of a folded map and your phone, which you’re holding up like a war plan.

“Okay,” you say, breathless with purpose, “we’ve got maybe fifteen minutes before the guy who did those Batman covers packs up and disappears. Artist Alley is on the other side of the floor. We can make it if we don’t stop.”

Mark stares at you like he’s never seen you before. Not because he’s forgotten. But because the you in front of him is unburdened. No Venom. No anger. No haunted silence. Just... you. You catch him staring.

“What?” you ask, frowning.

He shakes his head a little. “Nothing.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s your ‘I didn’t hear anything you just said’ face.”

“Incorrect,” he says, automatically. “That’s my ‘I’m soaking in your weird convention energy and pretending I understand the stakes’ face.”

You squint harder. Then turn and start walking fast through the crowd. “No time to mock me. Come on, sidekick.”

“Sidekick?” he says, catching up. “I’m, like, at least a co-lead.”

“You didn’t even bring a Sharpie.”

“I thought we weren’t supposed to bring our own Sharpies!”

You roll your eyes and keep walking. “You thought wrong. Now move.”

He follows. Dodging backpacks and capes and the world’s slowest Deadpool.

You walk like you’re chasing treasure. Like you’ve been planning this for weeks. You’re half mumbling to yourself about how the guy never does signings in your city and how one of his covers was a “legitimate moment in graphic design history.” Mark doesn’t say anything. He just watches.

You stop suddenly. Turn toward him. Start walking backward.

He blinks. “You’re going to trip.”

“I haven’t tripped once all day,” you say.

“You tripped walking out of the hotel.”

“That was practice.”

He raises a brow. “For what?”

“For now.” You grin at him. “So I can do this.”

Then you reach out. Brush your fingers against his. For a second, nothing happens. Just contact. Light. Barely there. Then you lace your hand through his. And keep walking. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Mark’s heart stutters. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.

He remembers this moment. He remembers exactly how your hand felt in his, warm, a little shaky, but confident. Like you’d finally made a decision and were daring him to question it. He doesn’t. He just lets you pull him forward. Through the crowd. Past tables of signed comics and cosplay meetups and old collectors hawking sealed mint toys behind glass. The noise fades a little. The world gets quieter. But the moment stays bright.

Mark wakes up slowly.

The hum of the lab creeps in around the edges. The lights overhead are back. Pale. Static. The terminal screen has dimmed again. His head is still resting on his arm. His hand is curled, half-open on the desk. Like he never let go. He lifts his head slowly, blearily, and looks across the room.

The symbiote containment unit glows.

The world is still cold. But for a moment, he’s carrying warmth again. From you. From then. From the part of you that’s still in there, waiting.

Mark stirs to the sound of the door sliding open.

Not the violent kind of waking, the kind where your body jolts. This one’s slower. Fuzzier. Like being pulled gently up from the deep end.

His spine protests as he sits up. The cold metal of the chair presses through his shirt. There’s a crick in his neck from sleeping at the desk, and one of his fingers has gone stiff from being curled in place too long. He flexes it slowly as the lab lights adjust to movement and brighten a little.

The footsteps are soft but familiar.

He doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is.

“You fell asleep in a chair surrounded by fluorescent lighting,” Harry says as he walks in, the sarcasm just undercut by concern. “You’re gonna be ninety by lunch.”

Mark blinks at the terminal screen, then straightens. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I figured.” Harry sets a bag down near the back of the room. There’s the faint rustle of paper. Coffee. Something wrapped in foil. “You were out cold. I stood there for like a full minute debating whether to poke you or just let natural consequences take over.”

Mark doesn’t laugh. Not really. But his lips twitch.

Harry walks over and leans against the edge of the table. “You dream about her?”

Mark’s throat tightens. But he nods. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause. Harry doesn’t press. He just watches him.

“Was it before?”

Mark finally looks up at him. His voice is soft. “Yeah. That convention in Capitol Hall. The one with the overcrowded food court and the Loki flash mob.”

Harry exhales. “God, she made us walk four miles across the floor to get to that one booth.”

“She held my hand,” Mark says. His voice is laced with remembrance. “It was the first time.”

Harry nods. “She made a whole speech to me that night about how she was definitely not catching feelings and how I should absolutely mind my own business.”

Mark smiles faintly. “That tracks.”

They’re quiet for a beat. Then Harry reaches into the canvas bag and pulls out a wrapped breakfast sandwich and a large paper cup. He slides both toward Mark.

“Eat. You’ll need it.”

Mark takes the sandwich but just looks at it for a second.

Harry leans back. “I finished calibrating the emitter. Tweaked the harmonic field so it syncs tighter with her baseline. It’s not perfect, but if it doesn’t kill you, it should at least give her a second of clarity.”

Mark raises an eyebrow. “Comforting.”

“Hey, you’re the one who said you wanted me to be honest.”

Mark finally peels back the foil and takes a bite. It’s lukewarm, but he doesn’t care. It tastes like being grounded. Like having someone still in his corner.

Harry drinks his coffee in silence for a few sips, then says, “I’ve got secondary transport set up through GDA. Quiet team. No alarms, no big weapons, just extraction if things go south. Cecil signed off this morning.”

Mark swallows. “And if I lose control?”

“You won’t.”

“But if I do.”

Harry looks at him. The kind of look you can only give someone you’ve trusted too long to lie to.

“If she turns on you,” Harry says, “and you hesitate too long, then I’ll be the one to step in. Not the GDA. Not some stranger. Me.”

Mark nods. “Okay.”

“I’m not saying it to scare you. I just-” Harry looks down, then back up. “She’d want someone who loves her to be the one making the call. If it ever came to that.”

Mark closes his eyes for a second. Then opens them again. “It won’t.”

Harry finishes his coffee and tosses the cup. “Then you’d better bring her back.”

Mark stands, stretches out his arms, and looks at the emitter on the counter. It’s compact now, fitted into the palm device Harry made. Like a trigger. Like a second chance.

He straps it to his forearm carefully, then runs his thumb over the activation switch.

“Got a location?” he asks.

Harry nods, walking toward the tablet on the wall. “Downtown. Industrial district. Empty building. She’s been circling it for days. No witnesses. No traps.”

“She's waiting,” Mark says.

Harry looks at him. “Then don’t keep her waiting.”

The city is still sleeping when he rises above it.

It’s not the kind of flight he’s used to. There’s no urgency in his posture, no sonic boom trailing behind him, no wind howling past his ears at hypersonic speeds. His movements are slow. Measured. Almost reluctant.

Mark Grayson flies like a man who’s trying not to disturb the quiet.

The air is cold. Early dawn cold. It sinks under his hoodie and bites through the fabric of his sleeves, brushing the back of his neck. It doesn’t wake him up. If anything, it makes the ache behind his eyes worse. He’s running on four hours of sleep across two nights and a half-eaten sandwich. His hands feel cold. His limbs heavier than usual. But none of it stops him.

He needs to see you. Not the thing you’ve become. You. That’s why he isn’t wearing the suit.

The yellow and blue suit Spider-Woman always said made him look like a traffic cone? It’s still folded at the bottom of his duffel bag, sitting on the cot in the corner of the lab. He hadn’t even looked at it before leaving. Didn’t even pause. Because it didn’t feel right.

Not today. Not for this.

You didn’t fall for Invincible. You didn’t fall for the guy who could lift tanks or dodge bullets or rip through the sky like a missile. You fell for the version of him who forgot his calculator and asked you to repeat what molarity meant twice in one hour. The guy who split his fries with you without asking. Who never thought twice about offering you the hoodie off his back when it got cold, even if you rolled your eyes the whole time.

You fell for Mark.

So that’s who he is right now.

His hoodie is zipped halfway, sleeves tugged over his hands. The same one you used to steal. The fabric still smells faintly like you. Or maybe he just wants it to.

The jeans are worn in the knees. He’d meant to throw them out months ago. You told him not to. Said the way they fit was "exactly right, like a depressed action figure." He’d laughed so hard you almost snorted tea through your nose.

God. That laugh. He hasn’t heard it in days.

Not the twisted thing the symbiote makes when it puppeteers your voice. The real laugh. The one you couldn’t hold back when he said something too stupid to ignore. The one that came out sideways and unpolished and felt like home.

He grips the edge of the emitter on his wrist, thumb brushing over the small trigger switch Harry calibrated last night. It’s still warm from charging. Still silent. Waiting.

He hopes it works. But he doesn’t know. And that uncertainty is sitting just beneath his ribs, coiled tight.

He crosses into the industrial district slowly, drifting just beneath the cloud line. The buildings here are mostly empty now. Warehouses and glass office shells. You’ve been staying near the old Avengers Tech campus, what’s left of it. It’s been gutted for years. Just steel bones and concrete echoes.

He drops altitude as he nears the perimeter.

His eyes scan the rooftops like instinct, but he doesn’t expect a fight. If you wanted to kill him, it would’ve happened already. You’re faster than you used to be. Stronger. Smarter. But you’re still circling this place like it means something. Like you’re waiting.

For him. His feet touch down lightly on the gravel rooftop across from yours. He doesn’t step forward yet. Just stands there.

The wind presses gently against him, tugging at the edges of his hoodie, fluttering the hem of his shirt.

The rooftop you’ve been haunting is barely forty feet away.

He can see the edge of it. The broken antenna that sticks out like a skeletal finger. The dark steel vents that echo when the wind catches them just right. He remembers this building, vaguely. You used to call it your “secret lair” back when you were feeling dramatic and needed a place to vent. You used to climb up there to be alone. Or to call him.

You once watched a thunderstorm from that rooftop and sent him a blurry video of lightning behind the city skyline with a caption that just said. this looks like how my brain feels when I’m trying to study.

He’d saved it. Still has it.

He lifts his hand to his earpiece, ready to let Harry know he’s landed, but stops. Drops it. The words don’t come.

Instead, he talks into the quiet. Not a whisper. Not a call. Just... talking. Like he thinks the wind might carry it to you.

“I didn’t wear the suit,” he says.

The rooftop across from him doesn’t react. Not yet.

“I figured... you’d know. That maybe, if you saw me like this, you’d remember.”

He swallows hard. His mouth is dry.

“This is how we met. Me, showing up late, forgetting my notes. You, already annoyed but helping anyway.”

He shifts his stance. Glances down at the emitter.

“I used to think I needed to be strong enough to protect you. That if I could just fight harder, move faster, be more, then I could keep you safe. From everything. From this. But I think now... you just wanted someone to see you. Not fix you. Not carry you. Just see you.”

The sky lightens slightly.

The first orange streaks of morning start bleeding over the edges of the buildings behind him.

Mark looks up.

“I see you,” he says softly.

He takes a step toward the edge.

“I don’t care what it turned you into. I don’t care how loud it gets. If there’s even one percent of you still listening, then hear this.”

His voice sharpens.

“I’m here. I love you. I’m not going anywhere.”

He grips the emitter. One more step. Almost there. Almost close enough to reach you.

The rooftop is quiet for a breath too long.

Mark’s feet shift over gravel and broken tile, one sneaker edging toward the ledge, but he doesn't call out again. Doesn’t raise his voice or flare his power.

He just stands there.

Not Invincible.

Just Mark Grayson.

The boy you used to steal fries from. The boy who wore his heart on his sleeve and didn’t know how to hide it. Who used to walk you home after study group and who once fell asleep on your couch during Science Dog reruns with his hand resting in yours like he forgot how to let go.

He thinks about that now.

And that’s when it happens.

Impact.

A blur of movement slams into him from the right, no warning, no flare of sound. Just sudden, explosive force.

One second he’s standing. The next, he’s airborne.

You hit him like a meteor.

The two of you crash into the rooftop behind him with a bone-rattling thud, his back slamming into the cement hard enough to leave a crater of cracked gravel and dust beneath his shoulders. Metal creaks. Pipes shudder. A chunk of the AC unit nearby caves inward with the force.

He gasps, more in surprise than pain. He’s not hurt. But it rattled him. You’re faster than you were. Stronger too.

But that’s not what steals his breath. It’s you. Straddling his chest, claws pinning his wrists to the rooftop, a snarl carving its way through your mouth, half-human, half-symbiote. Your face is wrong. Twisted in shadows. But your eyes. God. Your eyes,

They're glowing. But behind the glow, there's something flickering. A ripple of recognition. A hesitation that doesn’t match the rage coming from the rest of you. Mark doesn’t fight back. He doesn't blast upward or punch his way out. He just looks at you.

His voice breaks open between them, raw and breathless. “You’re here.”

Your claws dig into his wrists hard enough to dent flesh. Not breaking skin. Not yet. But close. Too close.

You snarl.

It’s an ugly sound. A fractured, tearing thing. Layers of your voice twisted under something wet and deep and alien. Like someone dragged a blade across everything soft in you and left only the bone behind.

But he sees it.

In your jawline. In the way your brow twitches, not in fury, but in confusion.

Like a part of you doesn’t understand why your hands won’t strike.

Mark breathes out slowly, careful not to move too fast.

“I didn’t come here to fight you.”

Your grip tightens.

“I didn’t wear the suit,” he adds. “Because I knew… I knew you wouldn’t recognize me like that.”

Your head tilts. Jerky. Unstable.

One of your claws lifts an inch, fingers trembling.

Then your other hand draws back fast.

A strike.

The symbiote coils down your arm in a black whip of motion, ready to pierce through his chest, and he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.

But before it hits, you pause.

Half a second. A blink. The barest flicker in your shoulder.

And Mark catches it.

He sees the tremor in your fingers. The hesitation in your core. That ripple down your spine like something in you is screaming stop.

And for that one split second,

You're you.

Just barely.

But it’s there.

He meets your eyes. Not the glow. Not the snarl. You.

“I saw that,” he whispers, not even loud enough for anyone else to hear.

Your eyes narrow, confused. The strike still hasn’t landed.

Mark shifts his wrist under your claws,slow, gentle,until his hand finds yours. He curls his fingers between yours, skin warm against the cold shell of the symbiote.

“You flinched,” he says. “You remembered.”

Your lips pull back in a snarl, but the sound dies in your throat. The claws hesitate. Shake. Mark lifts his free hand, the one not pinned, and lays it gently against your cheek. It’s risky. Stupid, even. The symbiote could tear his arm off for touching you like this. But it doesn’t. You blink again. And for one full breath, your face shifts.

The snarl melts, just slightly. Your mouth opens. The tension in your spine stutters. Your fingers twitch like you're trying to say something. Like your voice is caught in your chest and the black won't let it out.

Mark leans up just an inch, voice breaking.

“Say something. Please. Just say anything.”

You shudder. And then you do. It’s not a word. Not fully. But it’s a sound. Not the guttural roar from before. Not the symbiote's weaponized scream. It’s a breath. A syllable. A name. His name.

“...Mark?”

And then you rip away from him, gasping like you’re underwater.

You stumble backward, hand to your head like the noise in it is suddenly too loud to bear. The symbiote convulses around your spine like it’s trying to restrain you. Reassert control. Your entire body twists in resistance.

You crash into the edge of the rooftop, back arching in pain, black tendrils flaring outward like static. You scream,but this time, it’s not rage. It’s something closer to grief.

Mark sits up slowly. You’re still on the edge. Hands gripping the ledge behind you. Eyes wild. But they’re your eyes. Shaking. Wide. Haunted.

“...What did you do to me?” you ask, voice breaking.

Mark doesn’t move toward you. Not yet.

He just breathes.

Because you spoke.

You said his name.

You remember him.

You’re still in there.

And then silence.

Sharp. Still. Too loud.

You’re still on the rooftop. You can feel the ground under your boots, the morning chill brushing your cheek, the weak light of dawn slicing between buildings like it’s trying to reach you. Trying to wake you.

You don’t move.

But your eyes are wide.

You heard it. The way your voice broke on his name. The way it sounded too familiar, too natural. Like it’d been sitting in your mouth the whole time, waiting for permission.

The symbiote flinches around you. Not visibly, not at first, but you feel it. A coil tightening around your spine. A pressure behind your eyes, sharp and cold and angry. It doesn’t like what you just said. It doesn’t like that name.

And it knows you didn’t mean to say it.

You stumble back.

Mark, still kneeling, doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t rush.

He just looks at you with that same expression he used to wear when he saw something precious break in your hands. Something small and silly. A dropped figurine. A cracked screen. A ruined notebook. That soft sadness that said ‘it’s okay. I can fix it.’

He says your name, gentle. Like it's holy.

“Don’t,” you croak.

But it’s too late.

The memory’s in your chest now, beating like a second heart.

And so you run.

Because if you stay, he’ll say it again.

Because if you stay, you’ll want to hear it again.

You spin around, feet catching on gravel as you launch yourself from the edge of the rooftop. You leap high, higher than you should, and land on the next building in a stumble. You hit hard, knees bending too fast, hands grazing the cement. Pain spikes up your side. Not from the fall. From the noise in your head. From the way the symbiote is thrashing under your skin, furious and frightened, screaming through your bones that you slipped.

You feel its claws digging into your thoughts. Pressing harder.

Don’t think about him. Don’t feel.

You keep moving.

You leap again, across a narrow alley between towers. The wind tears past your face. You taste iron in your mouth.

And behind you,

Mark follows.

No explosion. No sonic boom. He doesn’t tackle you out of the air. He’s not chasing you like a predator.

He’s following like someone who believes in you.

And that makes it worse.

You crash through a half-shattered skylight into an old office building. Glass showers around you. Dust explodes upward as you land in a crouch. Your palms press against gritty tile. Your breath comes ragged.

You don’t stop.

You bolt through the darkness, past overturned desks, loose cables, the scattered ruins of someone’s past life. Light flickers overhead, broken security lights stuttering to life, casting long shadows that shake like they’re breathing.

Mark bursts in behind you a moment later, glass crunching under his shoes. You hear him call your name, just once, steady, but you ignore it.

You shove past a collapsed filing cabinet, tear open a stairwell door, and fly up the concrete steps two at a time. Your hand drags along the railing, fingertips glowing with the symbiote’s pulsing fury. It’s yelling in your mind now. A steady thrum of shut it down shut him out silence silence silence.

But it’s not working.

Because he said your name. Because you said his name. Because something in you lit up when he touched your face, and that ember hasn’t gone out yet.

You burst through the rooftop door with a hard shoulder slam. Light pours over you.

The sky is bleeding into morning.

The horizon is gold. The buildings glow with it.

And you freeze.

Just for a second.

Your lungs pull air too fast. Your body is vibrating with power. The symbiote is surging like a storm tide under your skin.

But you’re standing still.

Because this is the moment that feels too much like before.

Before Venom.

Before the fear.

Back when he used to call your name from across campus and you’d roll your eyes because you liked it too much.

Mark lands behind you a second later. Light. Quiet.

He doesn’t move closer.

Just stands there. Breathing.

“You didn’t have to run,” he says.

You clench your fists. The symbiote answers, curling up your arms like smoke. But you don’t attack. Not yet.

“You said my name,” he says again. “I know it was you.”

“Shut up,” you snap, voice cracking.

“I’m not the suit,” he tells you, stepping closer. “I’m not Invincible right now. I didn’t come as a weapon.”

“Then you’re stupid.” You spin on him, hair flying, eyes glowing too bright. “You should’ve. You should’ve blasted me through a wall or pinned me down or anything. But you looked at me like I’m still someone worth saving and-”

You choke. The symbiote twitches.

“And I can’t be that person right now.”

Mark’s voice drops low. “Why not?”

“Because if I am,” you whisper, “then I remember everything I did when I wasn’t.”

The wind pushes past you both.

He steps forward. Slow.

“I’ll help you,” he says.

Your breath stutters. “You can’t.”

“Try me.”

You shake your head violently, like the noise will drown him out.

The symbiote is clawing back now, furious, rising again to take you fully. It floods up your spine, twists your features.

You scream, loud, raw, agonized, and leap again.

Over the ledge. Into the wind. Down into the next block.

Mark doesn't wait.

He launches after you.

But he’s not chasing a monster anymore.

He’s chasing you.

The girl who still remembers the sound of her own name. The girl who’s afraid that if she lets go of the black, she’ll have to feel everything she buried.

And he’s not going to stop until you do.You’re already inside the building when Mark lands on the roof.

It takes him a few seconds to find his way down through the hole in the ceiling. He doesn’t yell your name. Doesn’t demand you stop. He just moves quiet. Quick.

You don’t run this time.

You’re kneeling beside a collapsed metal beam on the third floor. One hand on the rusted edge, fingertips resting against the spot where it happened. You don’t have to look to see it. You remember exactly where he fell. The sound. The silence after.

You feel Mark before you hear him. The air shifts. Dust kicks up in a quiet breeze behind you.

He slows near the doorway.

“Didn’t think you’d stop here,” he says. Not harsh. Not accusing. Just… confused.

You don’t look up.

“Yeah, well,” you say softly, “I didn’t think I’d ever come back.”

Mark’s voice is cautious. “So what is this? A hideout? A grave?”

You blink at the concrete. “Something in between.”

There’s a pause.

Mark waits.

You exhale. “I should’ve told you about this. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.”

You stand. Not facing him yet.

“When Ben died, I didn’t handle it. I thought I did. I acted like I did. I kept moving. But I didn’t let myself feel it.”

Mark’s breathing is steady. Still doesn’t move.

“And then a couple weeks ago, this guy shows up. Small-time criminal. I recognize him. He runs. I go after him.”

Your jaw tightens.

“He leads me here.”

You finally turn.

Mark’s eyebrows draw in. “Wait, here, here?”

You nod. “Third floor. Same scaffolding. It was still standing then. He tried to climb it. I caught up. He slipped.”

Mark stares at you.

“I grabbed him,” you say. “I had him.”

The words feel heavier than they should.

“He looked at me. And he recognized me. Said, ‘You let me go.’”

Mark’s eyes sharpen, but he stays quiet.

You continue. “He was the guy from the robbery. The one I didn’t stop. He remembered. And for a second, I–I just… froze.”

Mark frowns.

“I didn’t push him,” you say quickly. “But I let go.”

The silence lands like a stone.

You stare at him.

“I didn’t mean to,” you say, quiet. “But I wasn’t holding on as tight as I should have. And that second, when he saw me and knew, I hesitated. He slipped.”

Mark’s jaw works. His hands curl at his sides. But he doesn’t interrupt.

“I didn’t tell anyone. Not the GDA. Not you. Not anyone.”

He finally speaks. “How long?”

You blink. “What?”

“How long have you been coming here?”

You glance away. “Since it happened.”

Mark nods slowly.

You expect judgment. Anger. Something.

But what you get is:

“You were scared.”

You snap your head back toward him. “What?”

He shrugs a little. Not casual. Just… honest.

“You were scared. You froze. It happened fast. Doesn’t mean you wanted it to happen.”

You stare at him, breath catching. “You really think that?”

“I think,” he says, stepping closer, “that people don’t run to the place they killed someone unless they’re trying to figure out why it still hurts.”

You look away again. Your voice is barely there. “I didn’t want to let go.”

“But you did.”

He’s not soft about it. Not sugarcoated.

You flinch.

Mark exhales. Runs a hand down his face. “I’m not saying it was okay. But I’ve seen people do worse and not care. You care.”

You shake your head. “That doesn’t fix it.”

“No. It doesn’t.” He looks at you hard. “But it means you’re not a monster.”

Silence.

You shift your weight. “You’re not mad?”

“I’m not happy,” he admits. “But I’m not walking out, if that’s what you’re asking.”

You swallow. “Why?”

“Because I’ve seen who you are after. That matters more to me than what happened in one second.”

You’re quiet.

He sighs. “If you’d told me earlier, I would’ve helped you carry it.”

You close your eyes. “I didn’t want you to look at me like this.”

Mark steps closer.

“I don’t,” he says. “Not the way you think.”

You turn your face toward him,wary, disbelieving.

He meets your gaze and says, voice firm.

“I look at you like someone who got hurt. And is still here.”

You open your mouth.

Then close it again.

“I’m not here to fix it,” he adds. “Or you. I just… I want you to know you don’t have to be alone with it anymore.”

And for the first time in months,

You believe him.

You’re still standing.

But barely.

The weight of everything, of what happened here, of what you confessed, of what you never thought you’d say out loud, sits on your chest like a bruise that never healed right.

And Mark… he hasn’t moved.

He’s standing just a few feet away, watching you. Not like he’s waiting for you to break. But like he’s afraid you already did.

The silence between you holds.

And then,

It stirs.

The thing inside you.

You feel it first in your ribs,a flicker, a pulse.

Then in the back of your skull.

“He doesn’t understand,” the voice whispers. “He never will.”

You flinch. Barely. But Mark catches it.

He tenses. “What is it?”

You close your eyes. “It’s awake.”

The symbiote presses higher, curling around your spine like smoke drawn to heat.

“He doesn’t know what you are. He doesn’t know what you’ve done. If he did, he’d run. They always run.”

Mark steps forward once. Not close enough to startle you. Just enough to be there.

“Hey,” he says, soft. “You with me?”

You nod. But it’s shaky.

You can feel it now,the black crawling up the base of your neck. Slow. Hungry. Curling toward your jaw.

“You don’t need him. He makes you soft. Weak. Afraid.”

Mark’s voice cuts in again. “Don’t listen to it.”

You laugh once, humorless. “Kind of hard not to when it’s in me.”

“I know.”

He pauses.

“What’s it saying?”

You swallow. “That you’ll leave.”

Mark doesn’t react at first.

“Yeah? Well, it’s wrong.”

The voice curls tighter in your mind.

“He’s lying. They always lie. They want to break you down. Strip you clean. Make you something they can hold in their small, breakable hands.”

Your throat tightens.

Mark takes another step. “Talk to me. Don’t let it decide what you hear.”

You glance at him,but your eyes are flickering. The black is starting to coat your temples, crawling like frost.

“You begged for someone to see you,” the symbiote hisses. “And now he does. And he pities you.”

Mark hears the catch in your breath. Sees the way your hands curl.

“Hey. Look at me.”

You try.

The black twitches like it wants to yank your head away.

But you try.

“I’m here,” Mark says. “Right in front of you. Not because I have to be. Not because someone told me to be. Because I want to.”

Your chest jerks with your next inhale.

“You said you were scared,” he continues. “I get that. I’ve been scared too. I’ve messed up. I’ve let people down. I’ve,” He stops himself. Breathes. “I’ve seen things that broke me. But I didn’t stay broken. Neither will you.”

The symbiote snarls in your bloodstream. A hot coil of panic rising.

“We made you strong. He wants to unravel that. He wants you bleeding and soft.”

Mark shakes his head. “I don’t want you weak. I want you here. Yourself. The person I fell in love with. The one who throws popcorn at the TV and calls me out when I’m being an asshole. That’s who I’m talking to.”

Your hands twitch again.

“He’s afraid of us.”

Mark’s voice steadies. “No. I’m not afraid of you. Not even a little.”

A flicker of the black curls toward your eyes. You blink fast.

Mark watches it. Then takes one more step, closing the gap.

“I don’t care how loud it gets in your head,” he says. “I’ll outlast it. I’ll be louder.”

You grit your teeth. “You don’t get it.”

“Then tell me,” he says. “Explain it. Show me. Whatever you need. Just,don’t disappear on me.”

The voice rises,

“Let me protect you. Let me end this.”

But you’re breathing harder now.

Pushing back.

Mark lifts his hand. Doesn’t grab. Just holds it up. Close to your face.

“Can I touch you?”

You nod.

Just once.

Mark’s palm brushes your cheek.

And the symbiote jerks.

A flash of black spikes across your skin,but it doesn’t stay. It pulls back, recoiling like it touched fire.

Mark doesn’t flinch.

He stays.

“He will leave when you’re hollow.”

Mark’s hand stays warm on your face.

“I’m still here.”

You whisper it.

Like a defiance. Like a prayer.

The voice hisses one more time,

“Then you’re a fool.”

But for the first time since it took root in your spine,

You talk back.

“Then let me be a fool.”

The black recoils.

For now.

And Mark?

He just looks at you.

Quiet. Still. Real.

“Hey,” he says again. Soft. “Come back to me.”

And you do.

You’re still coated in black.

Still half-shadowed. Still trembling.

But you’re here.

And you reach up,

Take his hand,

And you don’t let go.

The silence after your whisper stretches.

You’re still touching Mark. His hand in yours. His palm warm against your cheek. There’s no threat in his posture, no tension in his jaw, just that steady, terrifying softness that’s harder to fight than any punch.

The symbiote feels it.

And it panics.

It moves like fire suddenly remembering how to burn, spiking in your chest, cracking down your spine, slashing across your nerves with a soundless scream.

You don’t say anything.

But your body jerks.

Mark feels it instantly. His hand tightens on yours.

“What is it?” he asks.

Your eyes flick toward him. Then past him.

To the black that’s starting to rise.

Not slow this time. Not creeping.

But like a tidal wave.

You stagger back just a step. But it’s already climbing your shoulders, coating your spine, threading through the veins in your arms like molten glass.

Mark moves with you. Doesn’t let go.

And then the first strike comes.

A tendril flares out from your side and cracks across the floor like a whip. Mark pulls you down, shields your body with his as debris explodes behind you. Concrete shards hit the far wall.

You land in a crouch. His hand still in yours.

“Let go,” you rasp, breath catching.

Mark doesn’t move. “No.”

“Mark,”

“I said no.”

The symbiote roars inside you. Not just in your mind now. It’s audible. A layered snarl that echoes from your ribs outward, vibrating your bones.

“You don’t need him. You need me.”

You clutch your head. It hurts. Like your skull is too full.

Mark stands up beside you. “Talk to me.”

You shake your head. “I can’t, if I open my mouth, if I give it even a second,”

Another tendril lashes from your back. Mark ducks it. Fast.

You don’t even remember throwing it.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whisper, horrified.

Mark breathes out, hard. “I know.”

You try to step away, but he grabs your wrist. “You don’t have to run.”

“I’ll hurt you,”

“You won’t.”

The symbiote coils again.

“He will turn on you. All of them do.”

You flinch.

The tendrils rise again, shoulders, arms, spine. You feel it surge toward your right side. Building tension. Ready to strike.

You see it.

You feel it.

You know what it’s about to do.

And then,

It launches forward. Aimed at Mark’s chest.

You react on instinct.

You move between them.

The tendril hits you instead.

You hit the ground hard, breath knocked out of your chest. The sting of the impact rips across your ribs. The pain is blinding. But it’s yours. Not his.

You chose it.

You protected him.

And the symbiote doesn’t understand.

It recoils, confused. Offended. Like you just slapped it.

You press your palm to the floor, coughing once, vision blurred.

Mark’s voice cuts through the ringing in your ears.

“You okay?”

You nod, barely.

He crouches beside you. Hands trembling, but steady. “Why did it hit you?”

You grit your teeth.

“Because I got in the way.”

He stares at you. Eyes wide.

And you whisper, “I didn’t want it to hurt you.”

The black trembles up your neck, flickering like smoke, like static.

“You betrayed us.”

You clutch your chest. The words feel like acid in your throat.

Mark touches your shoulder. “I’m here.”

“I’m trying,” you whisper. “I am. But it’s–it’s in everything.”

Mark nods. “Then let’s start small.”

You blink up at him. “What?”

“Don’t give it your hands.”

You look down.

The black is curled around your fingers, sharp and twitching.

You breathe in.

And will it back.

It doesn’t go quietly.

But it goes.

You stare at your shaking fingers,bare skin now,and for the first time in days, you feel like you again.

Not whole.

Not safe.

But fighting.

The building groans under its own weight.

Dust sifts from the rafters like ash. Your breathing is uneven, fractured. You’re not sure when you hit your knees, but you’re there now,palms braced on the floor, shoulders heaving.

Mark is beside you. One hand on your arm. One steady breath at a time.

He’s still talking to you. You can hear him, even over the ringing in your ears.

“You’re doing it,” he says. “You’re still here. I know you are.”

But the thing in your head is screaming.

“You let him get close.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“You opened the door. You made us weak.”

The black coils hard again.

This time it doesn’t whisper.

It roars.

You throw your hand out behind you instinctively, but you’re not in control of what it does. A whip of shadow rips from your spine and slashes through a steel beam behind you. The screech of tearing metal shrieks through the air.

Mark shields you from the debris as chunks of rusted steel slam into the floor.

You gasp. Your head is pounding.

The black tears up your side again.

“You were ours.”

“Shut up,” you spit, hoarse.

Mark grips your arm. “Stay with me.”

“I can’t hold it,” you croak.

“Yes you can.”

You shake your head violently, but the tendrils are already rising again,longer this time, sharper. The floor cracks under your knees. The whole room feels like it’s leaning.

And then,

The symbiote surges.

All at once.

It barrels through you like a storm, and your body moves.

Not like you.

Not like anything human.

You’re lunging before you realize it,arms sweeping outward, claws forming without permission. You hear Mark shout your name. Not in fear.

In warning.

But it’s too late.

You’re moving too fast.

You try to stop. To pull back. But it’s like screaming through glass.

You watch your own hands open like blades.

Mark doesn’t flinch.

He just holds his ground and raises his arms, catching your wrists mid-swing.

And for a second,

For a breathless, violent second,

You’re frozen.

Black claw to his chest.

His fingers around your wrists.

His eyes on yours.

“You’re not going to kill me,” he says.

The tendrils shiver.

“I know you,” he adds, quieter. “I love you.”

Your heart twists.

But the black roars louder.

“Then let us kill him for you.”

You scream, your voice and the symbiote’s overlapping in a raw, broken sound,

And then everything breaks.

Your claws are still out.

Pressed to his chest.

Not cutting. Not sinking in.

But they’re there. Your arms are locked. Your breath is burning in your lungs. The whole floor is shaking now, pulsing with that strange, unnatural heartbeat, like the building itself is caught between nerve endings.

The symbiote is crawling over your face again, trying to seal your mouth shut. Trying to pull you under.

“You don’t need him. You need us. You are nothing without us.”

Mark grips your wrists tighter,not to hurt. Just to hold you there. Keep you here.

He’s panting. He’s bleeding. But he’s steady.

“Listen to me,” he says, voice sharp. Clear. Louder than the voice in your skull for one second. “It’s not just bonded to you.”

Your head twitches. The claws tremble.

“It’s feeding off you.”

You blink, slow. “What?”

Mark keeps going.

“This thing isn’t just stuck to you, it’s using you. Every time you give in. Every time you spiral. It gets stronger.”

The symbiote snarls. You feel it recoil, like it’s been named.

Mark nods, like he can feel it too. “It’s not trying to protect you. It’s not your armor. It’s wearing you.”

“He’s lying,” the voice snaps inside your mouth.

“Shut up,” Mark snaps right back. “She’s not yours.”

Your knees buckle.

He doesn’t let you fall.

“You want to take it off?” he says. “You want it gone?”

You shake your head hard, voice cracking. “I don’t know how.”

“You already started,” he says. “Back there. When you stopped it. That was you. You have to finish it now.”

“I can’t,” you rasp. “It’s in everything. It knows me.”

“Then stop feeding it,” Mark says, sharp. “You think it loves you? It’s a parasite. It’s taking advantage of your guilt. Your anger. That guilt you won’t let go of? That’s what it’s eating.”

You blink fast. You can barely breathe.

The symbiote tightens like a vice.

“He will leave. He will die. We will not.”

Mark looks you in the eye. “I’m not leaving.”

Your whole body shakes. The floor fractures beneath your feet. You fall to your knees again, this time because your legs are no longer listening. The suit tries to lift you,like a marionette,but you press your hands to the ground.

“Stop,” you whisper.

The black twitches.

“I said, stop.”

It hisses.

Mark kneels beside you. Keeps one hand on your shoulder, the other curled tight into a fist in case the thing lashes again.

“You have to say it,” he tells you. “Out loud. You have to mean it.”

You close your eyes.

The black pulses in your ears, your mouth, your chest. It wraps around your lungs like barbed wire, dragging out every breath you try to take.

“You belong to us.”

But Mark’s voice breaks through.

“You belong to you. Not it.”

And that– that’s what makes you try.

You dig your nails into the floor. Into reality. Into the present. And you grind out the words, teeth clenched.

“I don’t want you.”

The black shudders.

But it doesn’t leave.

“Liar,” it breathes.

Mark leans closer. “Say it again.”

You press your forehead to the cracked concrete and say it louder this time:

“I don’t want you.”

The black hisses across your ribs.

“You need us.”

And now you’re screaming it, fists clenched, the world spinning.

“I DON’T WANT YOU!”

The floor splits beneath your palms.

The symbiote flares like a wounded animal, shrinking and swelling at the same time, uncertain, panicked,screaming in your mind now, but not with confidence. Not with command.

With fear.

Mark puts his hand on your back. Not to push. Just to remind you he’s there.

“I’ve got you,” he says. “You’re doing it. You’re still here.”

You are.

You’re still here.

The black doesn’t retreat.

But it cracks.

And through it, through the screaming, through the fire behind your eyes, through the pressure in your chest,

You finally feel something you haven’t felt in weeks. Yourself. Bleeding. Exhausted. Angry.

But yours.

The building rattles from the inside out.

Somewhere in the corner, a support beam groans under the weight of damage. The windows have already shattered. Every surface is coated in dust, ash, or black.

And your body is not yours.

It’s crawling. Convulsing. The symbiote won’t stop moving. It’s in your mouth. Your spine. Your chest. It’s wrapped around your ribs like armor forged in guilt. It’s whispering in your throat, using your breath like it’s still owed something.

Mark is right there.

His hand still clutches your arm.

He’s saying your name over and over. Not like a command. Like a lifeline.

“You’re still in there. Come on. Come on.”

You hear him.

Barely.

But you do.

And the thing in your head hears him, too.

“He wants to kill us.”

You close your eyes.

“He’s lying to you.”

Your pulse spikes. The black shifts under your skin, every nerve lit with electricity. It’s angry now. Not manipulative. Not subtle. It knows what you’re trying to do.

And it won’t go quietly.

But you’ve already made your decision.

You’re not dying like this. You’re not living like this. Not as its shell. Not as its mouth.

You reach up with shaking hands, gripping your face, and you dig your fingers in.

Mark doesn’t stop you.

He kneels beside you, eyes wide, but steady.

You can’t see him. You’re too far gone. But you can feel him there.

His voice is low, rough.

“I’ve got you. Do it. It’s okay.”

The black resists instantly.

It fights you.

It tightens around your jaw, your throat, tries to seal your hands away with slick wet tendrils, but you keep pulling.

Your fingers scrape against your own skin as you dig beneath the suit, nails catching in the rubbery edge near your collarbone. You grunt. Tear. Something wet slaps against your shoulder. Your vision swims.

The first piece comes off like it’s alive.

It screeches in your mind.

“STOP. STOP. STOP.”

But you keep going.

The suit lashes at your wrists.

It coils up your neck and tries to blind you.

But you shove your hands into it, into yourself, and rip again.

You feel it slide off your jaw, trailing wet sound and heat. You scream as it pulls hair, skin, memory. Every piece you take off feels like peeling muscle away from bone.

You think you might black out.

But you don't.

You stay awake. For him.

Mark’s voice is in your ear now. Fierce. Urgent. Still there.

“You’re doing it. You’re doing it. Keep going.”

The suit tries one last lie.

“He will never look at you the same.”

But you answer,your voice hoarse, broken, yours,

“He’s not like you.”

You claw at your ribs, your stomach. Tear strips of black from your waist, your thighs. It falls around you in splatters, each piece writhing as it hits the ground.

The floor shakes.

Your knees buckle. You drop, hands bracing your weight.

And what’s left of the suit begins to surge backward,up your spine, behind your eyes,to fight for the last place it can cling.

Mark sees it.

He doesn’t wait.

He pulls the device from his belt.

It’s already humming.

The light glows bright at the base.

“Now?” he says.

You nod.

Or maybe you don’t. You’re not sure. But it doesn’t matter.

Because he knows.

And he fires.

The emitter lets out a piercing, low-frequency pulse, thick and full, like a sound you feel more than hear. It hits your skull like thunder. Hits the suit like fire.

You scream.

So does it.

Your back arches. The black starts peeling from your spine like it’s being unzipped from the inside.

It writhes, slapping the floor, walls, Mark’s arm, desperate to hold on.

But the sound keeps rising.

The device glows hotter.

Your hands tremble as you press them to your chest and scream one last time.

“GET OUT.”

And the symbiote rips off you in a single, violent motion.

It slaps the ground.

Spasms.

And collapses in a pool of black.

No form.

No voice.

Just matter.

For now.

You drop to your hands, breath ragged. Sweat pouring. Knees slick with blood and grime.

Mark is above you. One hand still on the device. The other already reaching for you.

But you haven’t moved yet.

You haven’t said anything.

The world hasn’t come back into focus.

Not yet.

You’re just kneeling.

Shaking.

Bare.

And free.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

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[10underoot2]

I thought I would have so much to say about the car accident scene. And while I could go on for a while on why it's everything I've ever wanted from a scene of this nature and why it's a beautifully acted cinematic piece, I do think the beauty of the scene lies so much in silence. Their expressions are do a fantastic job to express their emotional state so I'm just gonna call attention to a few things I won't get over anytime soon.

Imagine being Haein and seeing your husband wrecking a car window in hysteria. Imagine seeing disbelief on his face when he sees you and walks towards you. Imagine watching him unable to breathe properly (sound on and high for this scene). Imagine seeing life flood into him as soon as you touch him.

Jiwon plays such an important part here. Because Haein has NEVER seen Hyunwoo like this. He's a pretty calm nice, non-violent guy. She knows him to like mostly everyone and he rarely gets angry - he's pretty composed. But then what is this look of complete shattered pain on his face? With a mix of disbelief, bearing the heaviest heart on the planet? He's unrecognisable to her. She can't make sense of any of his actions. She's in utter shock hearing how hardly any air is making it's way into his lungs.

In his eyes is a look of crazed wilderness just tamed. He's out of his sense. Completely lost in the events that have just passed. Not believing that he can breathe. That it's okay. All is well in the world for now. She's unscathed.

'What's going on? Calm down.'

The way she asks him to calm down - touching his face - cause she just doesn't know what in the world could send him in such a frenzy to forget himself. Her asking him to calm down here is everything to me. She's really just saying I'm here okay. Calm down. Calm down, you can breathe. Tell me what happened and I can fix it.

'Even still, Are you crazy? How could you break the window with your bare hands? Look at this!'

I know it probably didn't register to him at that point. But he's hearing her being worried for him again when he thought her lost forever. Wouldn't that sound like music to his ears.

And her...god she's so worried for him. She's never seen him like this. She doesn't know what happened to make him like this. One she sees his absolutely broken bloody hand. Two she's seeing her husband absolutely crushed. She's so confused.

That is until his words hit her like a truck. I think she had an idea that he did it to save her but she didn't know he did it because he thought her dead. And that makes all the difference for her.

Also I thought it was very interesting to keep showing his injured hand clenching. I think it was a way to show how the physical pain still didn't hold a candle to his emotional turmoil. He CLENCHES that broken hand multiple times. I can't even begin to think when he actively registered the pain.

The need for constant touch to reaffirm that she indeed is there. The sitting down. The head on her hand. The heavy breathing. *Chef's kiss*

I love women comforting the man they love when he's broken. Gah! That hand on his face and hug. Her embracing him. Letting him cry all he wants. Giving him the reaffirmation he needs by placing her self as close to him as possible. Trying to tame and override his sense. The hand on the nape of his neck. The hand caressing his hair lovingly. And good god, the RINGS.

Also notice his breathing on her shoulder. He's trying to calm himself. Telling himself she's here. Hearing her say it's alright. Everything will be alright.

I'm sure they stay like this until the ambulance comes and asks them if they're hurt. Only then Haein must've gently tore him apart from her (hand on his face again ofcourse) and convinced/guided him to finally get treatment. I can just Imagine Hyunwoo completely dishevelled going, 'Huh *sniffs*......oh.......Right, my hand' and that's when the pain hits him.

Special mention to the hospital conversation when Haein asks him 'Will you sob like this if I die?' and he says truthfully, bashfully, embarrassed but without missing a beat 'Ofcourse.' He's hiding behind nothing. He truly meant to give up on himself after her.

For me this is also the night Haein starts to write her diary. Hyunwoo must've been sound asleep, amped up on painkillers and she must've had so much time to sit and admire him and write.

Gif credits: @wolha and @seawherethesunsets

[i-drop-level-one-loot]

To Love You (Platonic Yandere!Child x Monster! Reader)

Chapter 2: The men in his life

[part 0, 1, here]

CW: femme bodied GN Reader, vulgar language, mentions of abuse, infidelity, unintentional manipulation

Stepping out of the shower felt no different than stepping into it. The wetness was felt, as the water was absorbed into their skin, but just as they could not feel the cold outside, they could not take comfort in the warmth of a shower.

Their home was.. quaint. (Reader) had to learn the concept of an apartment from their newly adopted son (the disgust they felt when they looked out at the building and believed the family lived in a hotel was visible on their face), and although they had their reservations, it wasn't nearly as pathetic as they assumed it would be. They had lived in poverty before, in a space larger than this, however there was electricity and heating; there was more fresh food than (Reader) knew was possible of storing, there were plants and plenty of clothes. Everything was very advanced, and it seemed as though life was much easier to live than before (even if they needed assistance with activating the shower).

Leaving faint footprints on the fake wooden floor, (Reader) saw family portraits both hung up and in standing frames on random shelving. Avery sleepily teetered over towards the monster, instinctively reaching out to grab their hand.

"I... did a truly terrible job of recreating her."

"Hm?"

"I look nothing like your mother."

Avery's hand flexed open for a millisecond before squeezing tighter. His face was scrunched in confusion, like his inability to process his own emotions was upsetting him. "I'm okay with that."

I'm sure you are. (Reader) glanced from Luanne to the man smiling next to her. But will he?

"What is your father's name?"

"Michael."

(Reader) picked up the drowsy child. His hair still smelled like the woods. "Is he a good man?"

The boy sagged, melting into his new "mother's" arms. "I mean, yeah? Mom yells at him a lot though.."

His room was decorated with comic book posters and action figures on every surface. The bed felt luxurious to the monster, and the blanket was expertly made, with intricate characters dyed into the fabric. They would later learn that it was a mass produced comforter, but at that moment it made them wonder who bought such an obviously expensive bed set for a child. If it was the mother, then why? She seemed to despise her son. And if it was the father, then that seemed to be a sign of good luck for (Reader). A kind and loving husband would probably be more welcoming to a previously hostile wife if "she" suddenly became equally as kind and loving.

Avery's tired eyes became unfocused as (Reader) tucked him in.

"Will you still be here when I wake up?"

(Reader) thought of Luanne. Her slightly crinkled skin under her eyes in the photos on the walls. The bright red lipstick on the bathroom counter and the perfume bottle in the medicine cabinet that reeked like her jacket and the skin she owned as (Reader) tore open her body.

"Yes." They were beginning to feel that they were just as confused as Avery.

This family was just a cover. And this family would eventually be nothing more than a meal.

But despite that, they still sat on his bed until the child fell asleep.

(Reader) almost went to investigate their own bed, when the front door opened very softly and slowly. Someone was sneaking in. They calmly changed direction in the hall, silently entering the living room to meet their new husband, who was quietly attempting to remove his shoes.

The monster watched him, his awkward movements as his heart loudly beat in his white collared shirt, and they felt a sense of unease. This was, clearly, Michael. It was the same man from the photographs. So why was he tiptoeing into his own home?

Michael took a shaky breath, calming his anxious heart, when he turned around and saw his wife, nearly experiencing a heart attack.

"Jesus, Luanne! Why're you just standing there?" His tone was accusatory despite the warm smile he had on his face. "I'm sorry I'm late, I got held up by that prick Donnie. Made me stay late to fix some fuck up that the new kid made.."

As he, loudly, approached the monster posing as his wife, they could smell him; and suddenly everything made sense.

He didn't even blink as he stared into his wife's eyes. There was no flicker of discomfort, recognition in his expression.. Michael couldn't tell that there was something off about Luanne.

His shirt smelled like chemicals and fruit and plastic and alcohol.

He leaned in to kiss (Reader).

They were used to kissing humans.

They never once enjoyed it.

But it was something they had to do.

To blend in.

However, when Michael opened his mouth it wasn't just cheap wine (Reader) could smell. It was slightly acidic. And they reared their head away in disgust.

Of course a man like this wouldn't have ever noticed that his wife was abusing his son.

"Your breath smells like another woman's cunt." They still expected Michael to finally notice that they weren't his wife, but even after hearing their voice it didn't seem to phase him.

"..Not this again." He abruptly spun away. "I just got home after a long day, can you not act like a crazy bitch for five fucking minutes?!"

He tossed his keys onto the little table by the front door as aggressively as he could without "throwing" them.

"I work so hard for you and Avery, and all you do is complain. How is that fair to me? You promised you wouldn't bring this up again, and yet here you are-"

"Avery and I were in an accident today." (Reader) cut him off. They didn't really want any sympathy from him, they just didn't want to listen to his pathetic moaning.

Their words seemed to shock him out of his tirade. "What? Is he okay?"

"Yes. However, I have a concussion.. the amb-u-lance doctors said that it was normal to experience some mild memory loss." They hoped their face appeared sincere. "I'm sorry. I thought I smelled something.."

Michael didn't seem to notice that his wife's speech had changed drastically. He reached out in a sympathetic manner, cupping their face with his hand.

"If it's that bad, why didn't they take you to a hospital?"

Ah.

"They suggested I go if my confusion worsens or if I developed any new symptoms."

He sighed through a grimace. "Well.. I'm glad you're alright."

(Reader) contemplated eating him.

"I see you've already showered.. why don't you go to bed, I'll be there in a second?"

You disgust me.

"I'm going to lay down with Avery. I'm still a little shaken up after the accident."

"How did it-?" Michael sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Fine. We can talk in the morning."

He reached out again to hold (Reader), and it felt like mold growing on their skin when he planted a kiss on their forehead. His grip was tight on their shoulders, as if to prove that he could kiss them whenever he felt like it and they had no choice.

No; Luanne had no choice.

(Reader) flashed him a smile. He only smiled back.

What a prick.

They silently left the cheating bastard and returned to Avery's bedroom, where they could hear from his breathing that he had woken up and was doing his best to pretend to sleep. "May I lay down for a while?"

He didn't respond but scooted over to make room on his twin sized bed. The child was so small that it didn't cause much cramping to lie beside him.

"Avery?" It was plain curiosity. But a curiosity that was not appropriate when taking to a child. "Why didn't your father stop Luanne?"

Avery opened his large baby like eyes, staring up at (Reader's) unblinking ones. "What do you mean?"

"Did he ever ask you about your bruises?"

"Yes." He answered automatically before pausing, trying to recall a time when his dad may have noticed how mean his mom could be, and realizing that there was none. Every argument they ever had was about them. They were never about him. "No."

(Reader) wondered why they were probing their son. Maybe, deep down the know what they were doing: driving a wedge between them so (Reader) could eat the boy's father without regret. Yet, it didn't feel that way. They wanted to know. They were curious.

"I am not a human."

"..I know."

"My sense of smell is much greater than yours. As is my hearing."

"Really?"

They pulled Avery into a hug, whispering "I can hear your father's heart from the kitchen."

Instead of fear, this revelation seemed to excite the boy. "Really?!" He theatrically whispered back.

"I can smell.. a raccoon outside, climbing a tree."

A small gasp before a "You are a hero!" squeaked out of Avery.

"Avery." Their voice turned serious. "I can smell another woman on your father."

His breathing hitched. "What does that mean?"

".. Your mother was a very bad person for what she did to you. And your father.. he should have noticed what was happening."

Silence thickened between the two. The concept that his father failed him settled into Avery's tiny, six year old brain. Everything felt very complicated, and it was wearing him down. He felt more exhaustion than he felt in a very long time. "Will you protect me?"

(Reader's) mouth moved before the thought formed in their mind. "Yes."

After a very loud, one sided argument about the trashed vehicle, the monster was taking their new boy to school via the city bus. They understood that a motorized carriage must have been expensive, but their survival felt more important. On top of the irritation from an unnecessary "conversation" with their "husband", it stressed out Avery, who appeared to be distant with his father.

The city bus stunk of piss. It was disgusting, but Avery seemed impressed.

"Mom, there's my school!" He jabbed the window, pointing at a very large building,

"Is this a private institution?"

"Inst- insti- tush- ...no, it's a regular school?"

His face lit up with pride when his mom complimented his school, "It's impressive."

That is what they said, however, after exiting the bus and entering the school grounds, there was a very stern looking man glaring at (Reader) from the steps. He was about Michael's age, shaved bald sporting thick framed glasses and was smartly dressed. Upon seeing his frightening stare, they gently squeezed Avery's hand to catch his attention. "Do I know that man?"

"Yeah, that's Mr. Knight.." Avery sounded very quiet. "He's the counselor. He came over for a visit a few weeks ago."

"Why?"

"I don't know?" He lied.

The serious man's face completely changed when Avery drew near, cracking into a large, lopsided and toothy smile. "Good morning, Mr. Avery! How ya doin?" His voice was impressively deep, but (Reader) was more impressed by the fact that they had just realized there were children and teachers of all races entering the same building. They allowed themselves to smile widely, feeling a moment that was close to satisfaction: having been so many people, it was like joy and revenge all at once to be in the future.

But their smile fell when they looked back at the counselor, and recognized the emotion plastered on his form.

He saw (Reader's) smile, and he could tell that it was different.

He was not like Michael, who was so blind to his wife that he did not notice the change; this man saw their smile, and felt the fear, disgust, confusion, and discomfort that humans felt when they saw a fake human.

The uncanny valley.

Mr. Knight visibly shuttered before returning to his previous anger. "Good morning, Mrs. Jones." He spat out the name like it was vinegar. "I see you're personally escorting your son today."

(Reader) focused on keeping their face neutral.

Avery responded before the creature could. "We got into an accident. The car is getting fixed, so we took the bus."

Worry filled his dark eyes, returning his attention to Avery. "An accident? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, but Mom hit her head."

The sympathy he expressed was so plainly fake that it felt spiteful. "Well. Hopefully your injury wasn't too severe?"

(Reader) smiled again.

It made perfect sense. This man hated Luanne, Avery's real mother. But that woman was dead.

"I'm feeling much better now, thank you."

He involuntarily shivered at their voice. Even though he had no way of knowing that the mother was actually an ancient boogeyman forgotten by time, he clearly could feel it.

And while they respected that there seemed to be one adult who cared for Avery, they recognized that Mr. Knight would potentially be a headache for them in the near future.

[sansaorgana]

— THE FAVOURITE

PAIRING — Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x fem!Reader

SUMMARY — As Feyd-Rautha's favourite concubine, your position is threatened after his affair with Lady Margot.

REQUEST — (1)

AUTHOR’S NOTE — Once again I couldn't help myself and created some twisted & toxic dynamic between Feyd and The Reader full of mind games and scheming lol 😏 Thank you @little-diable for "letting me" to write this story. 🌹 I reached out to her after getting this request since she has a similar (and amazing) fanfic – "Guilt".

WARNINGS — Reader is some sort of a slave/servant, harm to Lady Margot and her child mentioned, mentions of sexual activities including non/dub-con (no actual smut)

WORD COUNT — 3,520

ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.

THE FAVOURITE

Being Feyd-Rautha’s favourite concubine made your position on Giedi Prime secure. Coming from nothing and having no drop of noble blood flowing in your veins, you ended up with a luxurious bedroom and your own team of servants. Baron Harkonnen allowed this arrangement only because of the little agreement between you and him – you were to spy on his nephew and your servants were doing the job when you personally could not. The stench of schemes and lies surrounded the fortress like a thick fog.

So, when your lover didn’t come to you after his own birthday party – even though you were waiting for him all dressed up and prepared – you wanted to know why. Your servants came back to you quickly, bringing you the news of Feyd-Rautha spending the night in a guest wing. In the bedroom of Lady Margot Fenring, to be exact. A known Bene Gesserit sister.

Concubines had no right to be jealous. They knew their place. Noblemen couldn’t marry a random woman they favoured just because of some sort of affection or sentiment. They had to keep their options open in case a political union would be proposed. And apart from that, noblemen had their responsibilities when it came to the Bene Gesserit order and their own plans and schemes. You knew enough to have a feeling what Lady Margot wanted from Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. To secure his bloodline.

Concubines didn’t exist to secure bloodlines – unless the circumstances were desperate. But usually, concubines existed to bear bastards.

You tore your dress off of your body, removed the jewellery and let it fall down on the cold, black marble as it shattered. The servants watched with terror in their eyes as tiny pieces of gemstones scattered all over the floor. You told them all to leave but they were petrified. So you yelled, you gave an order. And only when you were left alone, you allowed yourself to lay on your bed and cry.

You had sacrificed nearly everything to be in this position. Losing the title of Feyd-Rautha’s favourite concubine meant death to you. You knew what he was doing to the toys he was getting bored of. In fact, you often encouraged those acts. Now, you had to face a threat of becoming the next tossed aside pet.

You were finishing your breakfast when Feyd entered your chambers without a word or a knock upon the doors. He was the only person allowed such entrance and all your servants stiffened at the sight of him, bowing their heads and taking a few steps back. You decided to ignore him as you were sipping on your beverage and staring at the large painting on the wall in front of you. It was a landscape from your homeplanet. Or rather, how it had used to look like before The Harkonnen invasion and occupation.

As a little girl, you had been taken with others to Giedi Prime and forced to become a servant. Your hair had been shaved, the back of your neck tattooed with a Harkonnen sigil like you were a slave. Slaves died like flies on this court. Befriending the young na-baron had been your only chance of survival. And once you both had been old enough, the friendship developed into a romance. But sometimes, when you were forgetting yourself – too drunk on your own influence these days – you would touch the back of your neck and trace the tattooed mark. You had long hair again, covering it from the world. But you knew it was there. You were only a servant that had been promoted because of a spoiled boy’s whim.

“I have news for you, pet,” Feyd-Rautha stood above you with a proud smirk, showing off his black teeth.

You continued to ignore him and it made the smile turn into a frown.

“What is it?” He asked but you still refused to lay your eyes on him.

“I know where you were last night,” you finally decided to address the matter as you lazily leaned back on the chair and looked up at his face. He snorted at you.

“Not the first time I spent a night with another woman. Having a title of my favourite whore means that you are one of many – not the only one,” he reminded you and your jaw clenched at his choice of words.

“Not every night is your birthday. And not every woman is a Bene Gesserit witch,” you stood up angrily. “And I am not a whore.”

“Concubine is only a nicer way to put it but you’re big enough to handle the truth, pet,” Feyd was angered, you could sense that. But he was still amused by your little tantrum.

“Leave us,” you ordered to the servants and they bowed down before walking out of the chambers as fast as possible.

“What do you expect me to say? That I’m sorry?” Feyd’s voice was full of contempt as he observed your pacing around with squinted eyes. “I am not tied to you by any word nor oath.”

“What did she want?” You asked him and he shut his mouth. “She wanted to secure the bloodline, did she not?”

Feyd did not say anything and that was an answer for you. You nodded and walked away to stand by the window and gaze upon the cityscape of Giedi Prime. 

“I didn���t have a choice. And I probably will never even see that child. They mean nothing to me and will never be recognised as my heir. What does it matter to you?” Feyd tried to explain himself awkwardly as he sat by the table and put his feet up on the surface in a careless manner.

“Did she use The Voice on you?” You turned around to look at him with a furrowed brow.

“Yes,” Feyd nodded, looking away. “Does it change anything?”

“It changes everything to me,” you approached him to stand behind and put your hands on his tense shoulders. “They keep using you. Your uncle all this time, now her. And you just shake it off and pretend it’s no big deal but it is, Feyd-Rautha. Have you ever been able to make your own decision? Even choosing me as your favourite had to be accepted by The Baron.”

“Don’t pretend to suddenly care about me,” Feyd barked at you. “You’re spying on me for him.”

“Because I have to,” you whispered.

“And I have to do some things, too, which makes us fair,” he shrugged his arms and you let your hands fall to your sides again. You watched him reach for an orange as he began to peel it slowly in silence.

He was right but it was not enough for you to know that he was right. You were still raging inside; filled with jealousy and betrayal even though you had no right to feel these things. Swiftly, you reached out for a short knife that Feyd always carried by his waist. He was so relaxed and trustful around you that his reflexes didn’t catch on your actions. 

You pressed the tip of the blade to the back of his neck, the exact same spot where your tattoo was.

“I wish I could mark you as my own, too,” you whispered and he only chuckled, not fearing the knife at all.

“Do it then, pet. If that brings you relief, that is,” he dared you. “The pain will be welcomed.”

“I can’t do it,” your hand shivered as you lowered it.

“Then don’t threaten me with empty promises,” Feyd barked as he turned around rapidly and grabbed your wrist. He twisted it painfully, making you drop the knife as you hissed out of pain. “I don’t belong to you,” he reminded, his voice cold and sharp. You winced at the pain shooting up your arm but refused to show weakness.

“And I don't belong to you either,” you shot back, your voice trembling with anger and hurt you had been suppressing. “If I am to live here my whole life like a slave, kill me then.”

For a moment, you just stood there, staring at each other with hatred and passion as the tension crackled between you two like electricity. Finally, Feyd released your wrist with a dismissive shove, his expression hardening into a mask of indifference.

"Fine," he spat. "I am to inherit Arrakis and you are not coming with me. Stay here and rot, find yourself a new Master or leave, I do not care," he informed you and left your chambers just like that.

You were still standing there, petrified, as you blinked a few times before the meaning of his words made sense to you. He was abandoning you… but you couldn’t blame him. You showed weakness of your jealousy and that was something concubines were not supposed to do. Instead of playing your cards right, you snapped. And now there was no turning back from that mistake.

Your privileges were not gone overnight but everyone could see that something was wrong. While Feyd-Rautha was preparing to leave for Arrakis, you were not preparing at all. Your servants were nervous since their position depended on your own. And you were trying to work on a plan to be back in your lover’s good favours.

But The Baron was quicker than that. He requested your presence a few days before his nephew’s departure. You expected a punishment but, surprisingly, he was not as angry as you thought him to be.

“You lost the grip,” he informed you in his raspy voice, taking a puff of his pipe.

“I am sorry, my Lord,” you bowed down, nervously; humiliated.

“I should get rid of you. I’ve heard my nephew granted you freedom but we both know you have nowhere to go anyway,” The Baron pointed out and you swallowed thickly at his words.

“If I was only given one more chance…” You dared to look up.

“That is what I want to grant you,” he nodded as your eyes widened. Baron Harkonnen was not known for being generous or forgiving. “You see, on Arrakis I will need a spy next to Feyd-Rautha. Someone I trust. And you… We’ve worked for quite a long time now. You have never disappointed me nor showed any sign of disloyalty towards me. Looking for someone new, especially for such an important task… It would not be advised. I need you on Arrakis with Feyd-Rautha,” The Baron pointed his chubby hand at you.

“I understand, my Lord. But… He does not want me there. Not as his concubine at least,” you looked down, ashamed that you had to admit it out loud.

“That boy will soon start missing you. But we can’t wait until then,” The Baron agreed. “Since he has carelessly given you freedom already and you’re no longer a servant, I can promote you, child,” The Baron hummed to himself as you tilted your head out of curiosity – Feyd-Rautha’s habit you had picked up from him a long time ago.

Because your whole life had been about being his companion. It was about mimicking his behaviour and learning how to make him happy. Now, when he was somehow gone from your daily life routine, it felt oddly empty and pointless. It was painful to realise that Feyd-Rautha was your reason to live and your position as his concubine defined not only your position on Giedi Prime but also your whole life and personality.

“You will be sent to Arrakis as The Fremen Expert,” The Baron informed you and you couldn’t help letting out a little laugh.

“The Fremen Expert, my Lord? I do know nothing of them and their customs,” you reminded him.

“And we do not care about them nor their customs. We want nothing but annihilation of their race. But what we also want… What we need… Is your presence on Arrakis. Feyd-Rautha will be informed that you must take part in every council, in every meeting; making decisions alongside his generals,” The Baron whispered and you straightened yourself, suddenly feeling a bolt of electricity going through your veins. From feeling like a beaten dog, you began to feel confidence and pride in your new role, even if the title was made up for The Baron’s scheming plan.

“Yes, my Lord,” you bowed down with all respect.

“Now, go, prepare yourself for the trip,” he dismissed you and you turned around to walk away with your head held high.

Feyd-Rautha kept avoiding you but those few times you saw him in the corridor, he was giving you hateful looks. He had to be not very pleased with his uncle’s decision. You gained the courage to finally talk to him in private when you were on the ship to Arrakis, locked together in space with nowhere to run. Forced to spend time together since the ship was not as huge as the Giedi Prime fortress.

You chose the nighttime for this. In the evenings he was more vulnerable – you had learnt that over the years spent by his side. You entered his room on the ship without any guard stopping you as they knew your role in this mission. The Baron had given them direct orders to never stop you when you were about to spy on the na-baron.

Feyd was not in the room yet, so you waited, sitting on the armchair and nervously playing with the rings on your fingers.

“What are you doing here?” You finally heard his raspy voice after the doors opened. Feyd walked inside, visibly irritated at the sight of you. “Congratulations, you’re a full-time spy now. What a promotion,” he sneered. “Still his puppet.”

“And you’re not? His puppet?” You sneered back. “How does it feel to not be able to get rid of your own concubine just because The Baron does not approve? I told you. You can’t even choose the whores for yourselves,” you stood up to approach him but he walked away.

“You’ve sealed your fate, pet. Once I become The Baron myself, I am going to kill you,” he ignored your presence and began undressing to change into his nighttime attire. As if you were only an air in the room but it also meant that he still felt comfortable around you and allowed himself to be vulnerable enough to step out of his armour and expose. He trusted you, still.

“It’s not like I’m that valuable to your uncle. If you killed me now, he would be frustrated. But he wouldn’t even punish you for that,” you shrugged your arms. “So why won’t you kill me now?” You teased as you raised your eyebrow at him.

“Come here,” Feyd ordered as he sat on the edge of his bed. 

You walked up to him, a little scared of what was inside his head at that moment but you tried not to show it. You had mastered the act of not showing fear around him already. He hated cowardice and vulnerability only inspired him to be even more cruel.

“Since I can’t get rid of you, there’s still use of you, is it not?” He smirked as he looked up at you. “Please me, pet,” he ordered.

“I am no longer your concubine,” you pointed out, trying to keep a poker face on and a straight back. The truth was, you missed him. You missed his touch, you missed the intimacy, you missed how safe you felt with his arms around you. You missed the nights when he would fall asleep in your bed. But you couldn’t fall back so easily. He liked to chase, he liked to play. And you had gotten the title of his favourite because you knew how to provide it. “You dismissed me. I am The Fremen Expert now,” you added and he laughed contemptuously.

“The Fremen Expert, and what is that exactly, my little one?” He teased, pulling you closer by your waist. “And what do you know of these savages? You’ve been trained in different arts.”

“What sort of arts, na-baron?” You asked, placing your fingers on his muscular shoulders to keep steady on your feet.

“Pleasure,” he sat you down on his lap and you joined your hands together behind his neck. “I missed your cunt,” he whispered into your ear, his fingers pulled on the fabric of your dress around your hips, exposing your thighs.

“You forget yourself, my Lord,” you teased with a smirk as he looked up, questioningly. “You see, in your anger, you set me free. You released me and I am no longer your servant. I am my own person now,” you reminded him.

“I am still your lord na-baron,” he reminded you. “And I shall do as I please with you.”

“But having me back in your bed will cost you. I am not free of charge anymore,” you stopped his hands and watched his expression carefully. His jaw clenched and his gaze hardened with anger and curiosity.

“What do you want?” He asked harshly.

“Depends on how much you are willing to pay to feel my sweet cunt again,” you tilted your head.

You knew that it was just a game and he knew it, too. Because he didn’t need your permission. Feyd-Rautha didn’t care if you were his servant or a free woman now. He didn’t care if you gave him your permission or not. He was free to take what he wanted. Because that was his nature and that was the harsh reality of The Harkonnens.

“You want money?” Feyd could not hide the sheer disappointment in his voice. He had thought better of you. But you only laughed at his accusation.

You needed to take a deep breath in to say out loud what you wanted. It required lots of bravery for a woman in your position to say.

“I want to bear your heir,” you told him.

“Impossible,” Feyd pushed you aside on the mattress as he moved away from you. “Is it part of his plan?”

“He doesn’t know. He would kill me if he knew,” you assured him, truthfully. “He wants you for Princess Irulan, I think.”

“He mentioned to me he would make me an Emperor. But he didn’t mention how. I don’t think I have to marry her. We are strong enough to just take the throne with force,” Feyd told you. “I don't want her. But you cannot bear me heirs. Only bastards. Is that what you want? To push out my bastards?” He asked as he hovered over you to intimidate you, looking intensely into your eyes.

“Bastards, then. Let it be,” you nodded, swallowing thickly, confusing him. “I’d rather give you bastards and live on crumbs than to be dismissed like in the past few weeks.”

Suddenly, his face softened, confusing you as much as you were confusing him. Feyd caressed your cheek with gentleness that was unusual for him.

“Do you know why you are my favourite?” He asked in a whisper.

“Because I know how to play the way you like it,” you answered.

“No,” he shook his head. “Because you actually like me.”

You didn’t know what to say to this confession. It caught you off guard, surely. And Feyd leaning in to place a kiss upon your lips – a soft, delicate kiss that you had only shared a few times before – that only intensified the feeling of confusion.

“It’s cute to see you jealous, pet,” he breathed out after breaking the unusual kiss. “I swore to myself a long time ago I would never marry even if he forced me to. And my only heirs will be the bastards you bear me.”

You felt warmth in your cheeks at his words. Realising that what you had been asking for did not have to be said out loud. For him it had been obvious for a long time. It was the only way for Feyd-Rautha and you were a fool to ever feel jealous.

“All you have to do,” he added in a mysterious whisper, leaning in to steal another kiss, “is to help me with bringing him down.”

“You fool,” you giggled and cupped his face delicately, confusing him. “It has always been my plan,” you assured him. “And once I have the power of The Emperor’s Concubine, I will hunt down the Bene Gesserit witch and her spawn for I am the only one who shall bear your bastards.”

“You were such an innocent child when you came to Giedi Prime,” Feyd sighed but not without an excited sparkle in his cold eyes. “And look what a monster I have made of you, pet.”

You chuckled at that, relieved to have him back and much more than that – already planning out a future that was even more promising than in your most secret daydreams.

“You taught me well, Master,” you only said and pulled him back down. “But next time you put a child in another woman, I’ll make sure you won’t be able to father any more,” you threatened sweetly before a passionate kiss.

MASTERLIST

[kiwicopia]

MDNI | Themetober: Midnight Ball

Vampire!Sylus x Fem!Reader

CW: Vamp feeding, use of a pet name, praise, sex against a window, licking, biting, begging, cunnilingus, slight orgasm denial, creampie, cock warming.

tags: @sweetchildcloud

Themetober Masterlist

Things were never supposed to end up like this. Perhaps if you had listened to the rumors about the ball tonight, you would have left with most of the others that attended the event—or, better yet, never came at all. Still, the rumors of the midnight activities afterwards had piqued a certain curiosity within you, and it couldn’t be helped if you desired to see what all it entailed. Though this may have been more than you bargained for with your curious little mind.

Your nails scraped against the surface of the desk as your eyes burned a hole into the ceiling while another moan was pulled from your lips. Strong arms were looped around your legs, keeping them apart and pinned in place while a tongue lapped at your cunt in slow, methodical movements. “Please,” you begged. “Go faster.” 

His movements ceased for a moment, allowing a few small tuts to be heard before he continued at the same agonizing pace. The tip of the man’s tongue rolled over your clit, sending a sharp pang of pleasure up your body, causing your legs to quiver beneath his hold. Sylus was biding his time with you, tasting all that he could before ruining you, however, he was beginning to find difficulty in his pace. 

Your eyes tore away from the ceiling to look down at him, but all you could see was the fabric of your dress shifting as his head moved beneath it. All of a sudden, his nose rubbed against your bundle of nerves as his tongue delved in between your folds to lick at your insides. The sudden action pulled another moan from your throat while also causing your back to arch from the surge of pleasure that flooded your body further. 

Sylus’ pace quickened, his head bobbing faster the harder his tongue lapped at your insides. He was losing control and falling deeper into his desires, but you never noticed. You were too focused on how good everything felt. The way his nose constantly nudged against your clit, the shake of your legs, and the bubbling of the pleasure that built up within your core. Release wasn’t too far away now, and you hung your head back and released another breathy moan before closing your eyes. “Yes, yes,” you whispered. A small chant that only served to spur him on even more. Faster, faster, so close, so close, almost there, and—. 

The white-hot pleasure you so desperately awaited never came, and the bubbling in your core ebbed away when he suddenly unhooked his arms from around your thighs and stood up. Your eyes snapped open as your confusion etched itself on your face, and your eyes met his shortly after realization hit, and your parted lips closed the second he spoke. 

“Against the window.” It was a demand, and your body obeyed without a single hint of hesitation. Sliding off the polished oak, and with legs a bit shaky from the earlier pleasure, you moved towards the bay window within the study. With knees pressed into the plush pillows beneath you, and hands firmly planted against the glass in front of you, your eyes glanced over your shoulder and at him. “Face forward, kitten, and keep your legs apart,” he instructed. 

Again, your body listened without fail, and your legs parted as the soft clinking of a buckle rang in your ears. A shaky breath fell from your lips when his chest pressed against your back, moving you further up and against the glass window. Sylus’ hands started at your shoulders, with his fingers slipping beneath the fabric and slowly tugging it down before pressing his lips against the soft skin. Tender kisses trailed from the back of your right shoulder and up your neck the more he peeled your dress down, only ceasing when your tits finally spilled out. 

“Pretty girl,” he whispered. His lips parted as his tongue slid out and licked a thick stripe from your pulse point up to the lobe of your ear, earning a soft mewl from you. Sylus chuckled as an arm slid around your waist, allowing his large hand to cup a breast while the other slid to his pants, freeing his cock from the confines of the fabric. His index finger and thumb tweaked at the nipple, toying with the perky nub until it pebbled. The other hand began to slowly pump himself for a moment, and he groaned softly at the ache that clawed within his abdomen. 

Sylus then gave your nipple a harsh pinch, causing you to cry out from the mixture of pleasure and slight pain before he moved it lower to hike your dress up around your hips. His body shifted behind you, eventually squishing your tits against the window as he aligned the head of his cock with your entrance. Realization quickly flashed in your head. “Wait—.” 

The rest of your sentence turned into a sharp gasp when his hips thrusted forward, burying his cock inside your warm cunt inch by inch. Your nails scraped against the glass in an attempt to quell the burning stretch caused by his sheer size. Sylus didn’t whisper any sort of apology as he repeatedly snapped his hips against you, groaning softly in your ear each time your gummy walls pulled at him when he slid back. Greedy little thing, he mused. 

Your head shifted to the side, with your cheek shoved against the glass as moans spilled from your lips the more his cock bullied your slick hole. Sylus watched your eyes grow heavy with lust, half-lidding the more he fucked into you, and he soon pressed his face against your neck. Your delicious scent wafted through his nose, filling him with a different type of need, and it only grew when hearing how wildly your heart thumped in your chest. 

Blood was pumping, and he couldn’t hold himself back any longer—not that he planned to that night. His tongue lapped at the soft flesh covering your pulse point before allowing his fangs to scrape against the skin. Your gasp didn’t go unheard, and he kept you still and in place before letting his fangs dig against your skin once more, this time drawing blood. A primal growl rumbled in his throat the moment the sweet substance touched his tongue. His fingers dug into your hips, holding your wriggling body as still as possible while he both fucked and fed on you. 

The sensation burned at first, what with the way his fangs tore small bits of flesh to procure the sweet ambrosial substance within, however, the burning ebbed away, having been replaced by a soothing and pleasurable warmth that blanketed your body. With your body more pliant now, Sylus continued with his feeding, all while pumping his cock deeper inside you. 

You moaned at the delicious sensation as the pleasure licked at your core. The familiar feeling returned, and your walls squeezed around him the closer it came for you. The vampire groaned again before moving his arms around your waist, hugging you tightly against him while also keeping you up against the window. Sylus knew you were reaching the end, and so was he. His cock twitched inside of you each time your walls squeezed around him, coaxing him to simply let go, but he didn’t. Not yet. Not until he heard you say it. His lips detached from your neck as he moved to your ear. 

“Say it,” he growled. “Tell me that you want it inside, kitten.” 

His length shoved itself back into the warm embrace of your cunt, earning a sharp moan from your pretty lips. “Want it,” you replied. “I need it.” The slight whine in your voice was all he needed to finally let himself come undone. 

Sylus’ arms tightened around your waist as he fucked into you one last time, burying himself as deep as possible before spilling into you, painting your insides white with cum. It was enough to finally drive you over the edge. Your sharp cry pierced his ears as your release finally came, causing your legs and thighs to shake against him before going slack. 

“Good girl,” he praised. While still inside of you, the vampire shifted his body around, lifting you up against him as he sat down on the pillows in the bottom of the bay window. Once situated, Sylus carefully maneuvered you around until your chest laid against his. You were worn out, he could tell, and he placed a hand to your neck before letting his thumb gently rub against the spot he fed from. His lips soon curled into a slight smirk as you drifted off on top of him. 

You would never know that he had his eyes set on you the second you entered his mansion, or how he purposely danced with you, staking claim to ward off others of his kind. Sylus had to be thankful for your curious little mind. If not for your desire to know what the activities after a midnight ball were, then he never would have been able to make you his.

[seventhcallisto]

A PROMISE IS A SWEAR ! giom — chpt. 1

Synopsis. Matz gains a new district and a new member. The same member who trails a bunny to the den and introduces the beginning of obsession for the leaders.

Warnings. Violence. Physical harm. Und3rag3 tattooing. Teenagers(that needs it's own tw). Gang symbols. cigarett3 b3rn. Harm. And emotional harm and arguing. Please read giom masterlist before continuing.

Tuesday.

Positively, you were furious. After a not so nice call from a local man you know —your neighbor to be exact— you were mumbling up a storm. Excusing yourself through the last hour of your job just so you could catch a certain someone in the act.

With your work uniform on and a scowl on your face. Hiking up a hill through a run-down alleyway full of creeps and illegal activities. You finally caught sight of the person you'd been there to catch.

"Get off of me!" You snatched the teenager up by his arm, pinching him through his hoodie. "Jihoon, if you don't walk your skinny ass legs down this hill, I'll drag you," you stomped your heel clad foot, whisper yelling at the young man.

Jihoon was always causing problems, so threatening him like this was most likely not going to get him to listen. His face shriveled up. "You're not my mom!" He hissed back, equally furious - most likely due to the fact you had just pulled him from his group of boyfriends. Right in the middle of selling a pair of off branded shoes- and as soon as they saw you - pretended nothing was going on.

Irritation, through a false guise of shock, littered their faces as you tore and prodded the younger man away from his group of mis fit friends.

"Lee Jihoon," you whisper yelled to him this time, turning his body towards you. You take on the anger in his eyes with a frustrated scowl to clash. "Go and tell your friends you'll see them later, We're going home."

His face was turning red from embarrassment. But he knew you wouldn't back down, especially how stubborn he knows you to be. He smacked your palm off his jacket, huffing out a breath of air and turning towards the group he's with.

Within a few more seconds, he was storming past you. Hunched and full of anger as he made his way out of the entrance of the alleyway.

"Do you understand what you're doing, jihoon? It's illegal!" His footsteps rang loud on the wood of the apartment, ignoring your words- hardly bothering to take off his shoes at the entrance.

Before you could get out another frantic sentence out, he was turning his entire body your way, a snarl to his lips that resembled a dog. "What does it matter!? You're never home anyway! The cops can't pin shit on me-"

"Watch your mouth!" You yelled back, eyes widening. "I'm never home cause I am working! Don't you get that? These nice things you have- the school you go to! I have to pay for all of it somehow!" You gestured to his bedroom, posters and nick nacks littered about. "If I don't work, you can't have these things," your eyebrows furrowed. It was always so frustrating talking to him- with the exact copy of his mother's attitude.

He scoffed, "Whatever" he walked away from you, closing his door with a harsh slam.

These little outbursts would burn and simmer, like the crust on a volcano.

You stepped outside- to have a moment to yourself. Calming down from such a heightened situation- it wasn't good for you to let it bubble. But with jihoon- raising him, it was hard.

The silence of the evening gave you some peace of mind. And despite the situation of your day. You were beginning to feel relaxed, listening to the crickets and the distant sound of cars- cats- and the occasional dog barking.

"Tough day?" Changbin beckoned your attention, his large arms crossed over the balcony, you glanced to your door, having realized he heard everything.

"Yes- well, tough to my standards anyway." You laughed lightly, sighing. Changbin tilted his head at you, taking a long drag of his cigarette. "If it helps.. I know a lot of guys who went through this rebellious phase." he gestured to your apartment door, seemingly talking about jihoon. "They usually outgrow it, yknow, teenagers always act out. I know, I sure did."

You chortle at that. Palming your head as you looked out over the city, finally, you turned to meet changbins eyes, his presence having grown closer, right next to you on the railing. Comfortably, you sat with him for a second longer. "You? Rebellious?" You grinned. The fun- gentle man next to you, the one you've known for at least four years. And still have yet to properly get to know each other.

He laughed, his face scrunching. "What? Do I not seem rebellious enough?" He nudged your shoulder with his elbow, pouting. You laughed again. "No, no, I just wasn't expecting that, considering you're a -" You stopped short, remembering what jihoon had said earlier, you cleared your throat in the silence. He finished for you, glancing out to the city as well. "A cop?"

He leaned back over the railing with a sigh, nodding his head. "I heard that too. He's a bit cocky, considering he lives next to one." Changbin murmured. You shook your head, embarrassed on behalf of the teenager under your care. "I'm sorry-" "don't be. I gave my mom a hard time, too. He'll learn." The man shrugged off your apology, another drag of his cigarette, before he dabbed it out, fiddling with the end.

"But I'm not his mom. He has a reason to give me a hard time." You sighed heavily, letting the words flow before you cut them off, biting your lip. Changbin noticed, he's a keen man, a detailed man, it was a part of his job. He shook his head, twisting his body towards you.

Before he could come up with a sentence, you smiled gently. "Thanks for calling me, I hate when he does that" you groaned, remembering how upsetting it was to witness the young man attempt to brute force his way into getting another schoolmate to buy the pair of shoes they laid out.

Whatever jihoon had been doing wasn't legal. And you knew- you know. So, of course, changbin would know too - he was a cop after all, a detective to be exact, it was his job to notice these things. "Maybe a little juvie would do him some good," you sighed, a poor attempt at a joke- yet changbin still laughed heartily.

"If you need someone to scare the piss outta him, let me know, I've got a few people in mind." Changbin pocketed the end of his cigarette, bumping your elbow with his just as he left.

Wednesday. Always full of woe.

The downpour of rain filtered out the chatter of the company hongjoong was kept in. Barked laughter and forced smiles as the people around him conversed. The only person to take any interest in it was on his right. Seonghwa could make up excuses for the lack of attention his partner was providing. But the grin on the peak of hongjoongs cupids bow was driving Hwa wild with curiosity.

"What has you so happy?" The taller of the two murmured under his breath, his companion heard it - and with a clear of his throat, peaked over his glasses to the dark-haired man. "I'll tell you later"

Seonghwa sighed, bringing his glass of champagne to his lips. "Later couldn't come sooner," he replied with a sigh.

Hongjoong was in a better mood than he had been any other time of the week, with the stress that comes with a business- especially as big as this one- he could finally catch a breath of fresh air.

With one long sigh, the car door finally snapped shut, with seonghwa sitting right beside him.

"Where to?" Jongho, the leaders trusted men (and occasional driver) asked as he glanced through the rear view mirror, his brown hair framing his eyes. Hongjoongs smile perked up, seonghwa had noticed. "You know where jongho" hongjoong waved his question off with a smile, shrugging into his large fur coat.

Seonghwas attention turned back to the blonde seated next to him. "So? Where to?" Seonghwa copied jongho, questioning the shorter- yet beaming man. Hongjoong shifted in his seat, his grin faltering when his tongue poked his cheek. "You'll see." hongjoong kept the secret, seonghwa could argue– but it was typical of the younger to be so secretive sometimes.

Once the sleek black car had rolled to a stop. The evening had set, and finally, the moon was beginning to cast its beams across the streets. Seonghwa took notice of the passing buildings. Unease, unsure of the surroundings- matz hadn't stepped this far out of their comfort zone in a while unless there was a meeting. So the rural area, compared to the city, was a stark contrast to his scenery setting.

Practically bouncing out of his seat, hongjoong ushered seonghwa out of his own as soon as the fur covered man swung open his door. Of course- he was happy about something. And seonghwa was beginning to have a clue.

His eyebrow tilted up at the bubbly, shade wearing man- contrasting against seonghwa who was dressed in the best suit for the earlier occasion. He pocketed his hands, watching hongjoong with curious eyes.

In his right, hongjoong spun with the proudest grin on his face. Gesturing to the open area, a park, where seonghwa had recalled only ever passing by once- back when they were meeting with another acquaintance. Hongjoong beckoned the older man over, lacing his hands over a railing, with one other foot on the steps. He stood proudly over the peering hill, a grin still prominent on his face.

Ah. That's what it was. "You could have just told me," seonghwa mentioned with a sigh, running his hand over his hair and fixing any loose threads. Joong chuckled, "it wouldn't be special that way" he sighed, leaning on the railing- childishly, unable to sit still. Seonghwa laughed airily. "I suppose so, considering it's a wide district." Seonghwa murmured, taking his spot next to the blonde.

Hongjoong shifted his body towards the taller, still looking out over the railing at the quiet below. "It's ours now." Hongjoong whispered, almost unable to believe it himself- crime wasn't easy in this area, the cops were strict, which ended up with tight attitudes and unwilling participants.

But finally, hongjoong found a willing distributor, and he seemed permanent for the time being- until he could be replaced.

"I've got a few of them out here already, watching." Hongjoong gestures to four distinct areas, seonghwa perched his arms on the rail. Glittery lights catching every which way. He turned his attention back to the ecstatic man. "And who's watching them?" He hummed.

There was hardly any trust for the underlings, not to say they weren't loyal to the cause, just that they were easily swayed and amateurs, so of course, seonghwa had to ask.

"Mingi"

Seonghwa took in a hiss of breath, the most loyal of all- a little clumsy though. Hongjoong could sense seonghwas thought. "This one is his. He practically begged for it." Joong sniffled a laugh, recalling the plead of the other member. "He said he could take care of it."

There was a silence for a moment before seonghwa spoke up.

"Do you trust him?" He asked. Hongjoong tilted his head, sliding his glasses to lay on the top of his head. He turned his face towards seonghwa for the first time during their conversation, and nodded.

"I trust you, don't I?" Hongjoong answered.

Thursday.

The following day was just as bad as you thought. Things may seem easier the next morning. But jihoon had still ignored you, even as you prepared him a breakfast along with his fresh uniform. A scowl on his pouty- still childish face. It made you want to turn in and wave the white flag.

So, when you sit at the empty kitchen table, staring at the packaged food –that had been coldly left behind– and reminiscing on how you could hardly get the same treatment from your parents growing up, do you begin to feel the ache of missing your best friend.

You couldn't dwell on it. Not when you had work.

Jihoon is as difficult as his mother. Purgatory thoughts playing in your mind over and over. Although your best friend Lia wasn't shy from being mean - borderline - a bully, she was still loyal and caring, and she loved jihoon. She would have had the best lines to say and tell; to convince him to get his act straight. But she wasn't here. And as his godmother, you had the responsibility to play mommy.

You really wished she was here. She'd know how to take care of these things. You've always been the softer one in the duo.

It's past 12, and you have an early shift tomorrow. You sit at the kitchen table, dazed and daydreaming as you wait. When you think over what could be happening, bile rises in your stomach. Jihoon hasn't returned home, and his phone is apparently off. He has been gone for hours. More so than usual.

What can you even do?

The front door is quietly unlocked in the silence.

You spring from the kitchen chair, watching the door be pushed in, followed by a hooded figure who doesn't bother to flicker on any of the lights.

Your hands are spinning him around the next second, although jihoon is taller than you- the veracity of your movement tugs him to face you.

You pull the hood down next, glaring his bruised face in-between broken orbs and clenched teeth, looking at the fresh cuts along his lip and nose. "Where have you been?" You say, as calmly as you can muster. Jihoons shoulders fall. "Out," he mustered, shrugging his shoulder past you to pull off his jacket.

You pull him back by his upper arm before he can go any farther. He winces but makes no move to push you off. His head is tilted towards the floor, and his breathing is labored - tired from whatever activity he had just gotten up to.

"Jihoon, your mom wouldn't want this -" his hand snakes out of your grasp as if you burnt him. "What did you just say?" He scoffs, clicking his tongue. You don't falter. "Yo-" "No, no, you don't get to do that. You don't get to use that against me cause I don't even know what she was like." You go to cut him off. "You know that's not true-"

His foot meets the stool as he kicks it frustrated, a silent curse coming from his mouth.

"I don't know if anything you say is true, I don't even know if you're really someone she'd leave me with to take care of. It's all just bullshit anyway, right?" His snarky tone wavers, his throat pinching close the longer he stays on this subject.

"I'm going to bed" he brushes you off once more when you attempt to reach out.

And you have the same lump in your throat. You don't know what to say yourself. You don't know how to fix this. You don't know what you're doing.

Friday.

Halfway through your shift, do you get another dreadful call- voice-mail this time, since you can't answer your phone during school hours. On the other end is changbin- but this time, he's just dropping information off for you.

"Hey y/n, I'm sorry to be telling you this, but -" he takes a heavy sigh, "one of my colleagues told me about seeing a kid similar to jihoon.. coming from this new operation we're in the middle of. It's a big nightclub - full of colors - hell, you can see it from a mile away, so just ask around. It just got up and running, we - don't tell anyone I said this - but we're looking at charges if he happens to be caught in there. It's not safe for him. that's all. Call me when you get this- we can go together. Do not go on your own. I'll talk to you later."

The end of Friday is full of dread. The streets are full of characters for the night. Fools and drunks and corner girls and the occasional normal group of friends, no matter who it is- you ask.

"The club full of bright lights?"

A man finally repeats your question. He's not entirely sober, nor is he blackout either. He points over his shoulder, giving lazy directions. But as you go, you thank him. Changbin was right. You couldn't miss it from a mile now that you were in a neighboring alleyway- heaving from having run everywhere to find this place.

The front is guarded with men in jackets, smoking cigarettes, and scaring the stragglers who stare a little longer than they should.

You power through, attempting to blend in with a crowd of rowdy girls who are easily let in- You're stopped by the collar of your shirt, pulled out of it and faced to face with a scarred man, eyeing you up and down.

"Are you trying to sneak in? Hey, why didn't you just ask to be let in? What kind of shit are ya trying to pull?" His heavy palm smacks your cheek, pat pat, your skin reverbs from the tiny hits- its a slap to your pride in a way. You scowl at the stranger.

"Theres someone in there I need to get" you defend yourself, pushing the man off your collar. His snarky grin drops into a scowl, the cigarette dangling from the corner of his lip dangerously. "I'm not buying that princess." The man flicks the ash your way, glancing to the other man on the door.

Your appearance is a contrast to everyone else. Your in your best dress for parent-teacher day, having cut it short to find jihoon. You stick out like a sore thumb. Fuck. You're really not getting past this guy.

You had to do something.

"He's underage! He's a kid, a kid shouldnt be in there- If I can't go in and get him- I'm gonna call the cops!" You're making a scene now- you're panicking, you have no idea if jihoon is okay, no idea whether or not he's doing drugs or getting himself hurt.

You're scared for him. But the glance in both of the men's eyes is your top worry. Threats about the cops coming around seems to gather attention, onlookers glancing your way and beginning to crowd the front door. "Cops?" The first man laughs, snatching your arm up with an icy grip that has you hissing in pain. "Are you threatening us? Ma'am, that's not proper. We're running a business here." His tone is attempting to be lighthearted, but the danger behind his grip and smile is driving the breath out of your lungs.

You're dragged inside by the same guy, the lights, the music- everything screams danger with this situation, not only that but the faces- the troubled people around here is nothing safe. You catch glimpses of people snorting different color substances off each table, tiny shiny and distinct pills littered around. Smoke and the burning smell of cigarettes- and something else, something heavy and damp, funky smelling. Earthy. You body makes contact with the door to a room and you're pushed into it abruptly.

Your feet stumble forward towards the middle of the room, where you finally find your balance. Cards are placed on a wide and round glass table and this place smells the worse of the earthy smoke, it clings to every surface, making you cough. When you do, the man in the center of the red velvet couch in front of you peaks up over his glasses.

His hair is white- silver almost, long enough to tuck behind his ears. He gestures with a ringed finger to the man with you to speak.

"She's threatening to talk to the cops."

"She a regular?"

"No, never seen her around here before"

The silver haired man takes a heavy sigh,, he parts from the woman and men around him to meet you face to face. He's tall- intimidating. His height is no joke. He scans you up and down with dark eyes. Emotions you can't grasp on his features.

Whoever the people are, they aren't bothering to look your way, quiet and head down. Sheep's amongst a wolf. He's obviously in charge here. "Look- I don't know who you are but you have kids in here- this isn't a place they should be-"

The flicker of a lighter sounds through the quiet room. The sound of music muffled behind the door gaurded by the man and another. You watch the silver haired stranger take a drag of a cigarette after flipping his lighter closed, the red pulse of light igniting in front of you, it silences you quickly.

"Listen." He starts with a hum, nodding his head as the smoke hits your face, he takes your hand in his, gently patting his large, calloused fingers over yours. You hesitate to let him have it, unsure of his motive. "I understand your concern, but we don't have kids here sweetheart, we don't allow that. Youth is important to our future, right? Isn't that what everyone thinks?" He glances around shortly, switching out the hand holding the cigarette to cage your palm in-between. You can feel the heat of it, see the ash starting to form at the top.

"That's not true." You whisper. His eyes squint. "You calling me a liar?" He murmurs, stepping closer.

"I'm calling bullshit" you hold your head high.

It's silent. Air so tense and thick, you can't tell if it's the smoke or the feeling lingering in your chest. But this man, he's not safe. None of this is. And you're really testing your luck here. "I need-" you start again. But the sudden burn of specks on the back of your hand makes you whimper in pain, attempting to draw back your limb from the man.

He holds it tightly in his, flicking ash onto the back of it, the sting makes you hiss, before he brings the cigarette back to his full lips, your fingers pale from the force.

He takes a drag, blowing it in your face once again.

"I don't like being called a liar." He pouts into his words, dusting the ash across your skin with his thumb, a warning at most. But it stings slightly when he flips your palm over to examine the lines.

"You come in here and threaten my place, I've only been nice to you this entire time." He holds his free hand over his heart. "What do you want exactly, sweetheart?" He squints down at you. The nickname makes your stomach lurch uncomfortably.

"I told the guy at the front. There's someone in here i need-" "and who is that someone?" You go quiet, squinting up your nose at him. He stares back for the next seconds. One.. two.. three-

There's the stinging burn to your palm, it aches and you screech in pain. Attempting to bring your hand back from the heat. A cigarette that is searing into the soft skin in the middle of your palm. You wail at it, a pain so uncomfortable you forgot it even felt real. The ash darkens when he puts it out. Smearing it across your palm. His eyes are unlike what you've seen, no remorse or mercy, just evil.

"I'm not going to ask again. Giving me attitude when I've been sweet-" "i-im not please-" you beg, anything to stop the pain and sting on your palm, to get the man before you to stop before he does something else, something worse. "Shh, quiet, I'm talking." he pats his palm over the open wound. You whimper once more, tears welling in your eyes. It hurts.

Before his lips fall open again. The door behind you swings open.

It's the other man from the front door. Followed by.. a few individuals, you can hardly see with the blur in your eyes.

"Raeun?" The second man to walk through questions. He's taller- his body adorned in what seems to be the closest thing to a suit. A pair of glasses and short- almost buzzcut black and blonde hair. Raeun- the man who grips your palm looses his grip, and you pull it as quickly as you can to your chest.

"Mingi" he huffs. "Come to join so soon?" He laughs, glancing to you. The man, from towards the entrance does the same. "Yeah, Came as soon as I got the go ahead" mingi replies plainly, walking further into the room. "Leave" he gestures to the people across the couch.

An array of limbs and people pass you, but- when you turn to leave, you're stopped by him. "You, stay." Mingi swings his finger out to call you over to him. Gesturing to the couch.

You really don't know what's going on. But mingi is gentle as he grabs your palm, glancing for approval- you don't respond.

"Seonghwa said no more burns, whats this then?" Mingi tilts the wound towards raeun. The same man scoffs. "She said she was gonna call the cops." "And you think this was gonna stop her?" Mingi groans, letting your hand go. You cradle it back to your chest, watching the tall man step up to raeun.

"Get your shit and go, you're out" mingi turns on his heel, stepping back out of the silver man's way to let him leave. Raeun scoffs loudly, "you can't kick me out of here, I made this place what it is-"

"Yeah and where did that lead you?" Mingi waves his hand out to the club. Raeuns face drops even further into anger. "Fuck- is this about her? We can just pay the bitch off-"

"Raeun" mingi hisses his name. The tension could be cut with a knife and you try everything to make yourself smaller in it. "Get. Out." Mingi points to the door.

Raeuns fit seems to cease, a smile creeping up his skinny features. "Oh, you got the position didn't you? The captain finally gave you something huh?" Raeun laughs loudly, holding his stomach that pokes out of a silky cheetah print shirt.

"Which means you're out." Mingi confirms. "Go." He says once more, it's a threat, the tone speaks for itself. Raeun doesn't bother once more, kicking the door open on his way out.

Your heart drops when the door slams shut behind him. Your labored breath calming to accommodate the quiet in the room. Mingi heaves a heavy sigh, taking a seat on the far side of the couch. His hand rakes through his messy hair, parting the spikes to docile them down. With a single hand in his hair and another reaching out for a glass- presumably full of whiskey, mingi finally glances your way.

You're a shaking aching mess, it doesn't take a genius to notice you're not for this lifestyle. You're dressed like a librarian in the midst of a nightclub for fuck's sake. Your palm is clutched tightly, as if you're attempting to squeeze the pain away. Your eyebrows are knitted and you're curled into yourself. Lost in thought.

"What are you doing here?" Mingi breaks the silence. You jump, turning your head his way.

"I'm looking for someone." You quietly answer. Mingi nods, lifting the whiskey to his lips. "Who?" He asks before he takes a gulp of the alcohol. "A boy, his- he goes by jihoon, he's five-eight- probably taller now- i - we haven't checked in a bit, he's got messy an-and curly black hair- it, well.. he hasn't let me trim it in a while and-" your rambles encourages a bubble in your throat, a sob beginning to form.

You could have gotten hurt worse, you still can, you could die here, you could be trafficked, mingi seems capable of it if he was able to test someone like raeun. And now the only thoughts in your mind are how you wish jihoon hadn't been mad, how you wish he could know you love him- in case you do happen to die, or end up missing. How the last thing you did with him was argue.

Your throat closes in when an image of the younger version of the boy shows up in your minds eye. The sob breaks out "he's just a kid, he's all i got- I'm all he's got, I don't want him here, please" you beg, for his sake, more than yours- mingi is so quiet, his aura is scary, he's not like anyone you've ever met before.

"Hey," he calls softly, your face twisting to see his. His eyes have caved, soft and understanding, his eyebrows furrowing. "I'm going to go get your boy, and you're not coming back. You hear me?"

Mingi makes his statement clear just as he gets up to leave.

The breath lodged in your throat exits as you nod. The dull ache of your hand plays at the back of your mind - finally, you'll be able to see jihoon, and you'll both leave.

You'll leave. Together.

There's no windows in this room. There is no light besides the TV in the corner. It flickers with a show you don't know, a familiar actor beating down on multiple men. Your eyes are blurry - and you wonder if you happen to have a first aid kit at home, possibly - if you haven't used all of the content on jihoon from his many fights and bruises. It feels like an eternity while you wait, hoping for light in the darkness.

You hope jihoons okay.

Your hope is answered when the door once again swings open. Mingi is holding jihoon by the scruff of his neck, pushing him into the room, but he sidesteps out of the way to let someone else in.

The cast of the club lights create a halo around the man, the beads of the entrance jingle when he steps inside, like crystals, the light bounces off every inch of the glass beads, illuminating the man in the fur coat from behind.

His hair is a vibrant blue, His nose has a define point, his lips are naturally plump- He's pretty. Which is a surprise. And you thought Raeun was the boss. No.. it's this man. With his cream colored fur coat and his tight leather jeans, a buckle with a silver star to top it off and a sheer black and white top. His shoes are leather, reptilian in design. A pair of dark glasses slotted against his forehead when he pushed them up. Your eyes meet.

It's dangerous. He's dangerous. Everything screaming. This is the type of man you'd see on TV, draped in luxurious brands and with a snarky attitude to come with it, a past- and scars along his figure, fuck- this guy is no good. He's a snake in man's skin. A wolf in sheep's clothing. And you can tell.

"Mingi" his eyes never stray from yours, as if stalking prey, his voice is light and inviting. Mingi glances his way, then yours with a silent response to the man "captain." He pushes jihoon forward and drags the hilt of his shirt up. You stand- to protest, to tell them don't touch him.

But the ink along jihoons skin is a sign of surprise. Of fear to your racing heart.

"Your boy here," the captain pats the young boy on his shoulder, jihoon grimaces, head down turned. "Has our symbol, he has the mark of ateez, and that means he won't be leaving anytime soon."

The lines of an 'A' are sharp, a circle to encase it, it spans almost the entirety of jihoons left pec. It's fresh ink. your stomach churns and twists. You think you're going to be sick.

"Jihoon is one of ours now." He finishes, clicking his tongue.

"Jihoon?" You quietly call. For him to say it's a joke, a sick one- but his face remains the same. Furrowed and ashamed.

Tears well up in your eyes once again. You've failed - failed as a guardian and failed your best friend. You failed the little boy you were given, and you've failed his father and future.

"Please. Please- okay- he's a child- he's only fourteen!" You plead with the man, slipping to your knees, desperate as you are- you're willing to do anything to prevent jihoon from throwing away his future.

The captains' fingers hold a coin- something you haven't seen before then. The men peer back at you in the dark of the room. "I-" "the ink is already there." He nudges jihoons left side, the boy groans in pain, most definitely sore.

"There's no changing that," he nods towards you, flicking the younger boy's cheek. His eyes are demeaning when he stares down at your figure. This all seems like a joke to him. With one final glance to your shaking body, the vibrant haired man turns away towards the door.

"Please. I'll do anything." You beg.

His steps falter. The coin makes contact with the metal of his rings as he plays with it. It dings every so often, like a clock in the silence over and over.

Clink, clink, clink, clink- ...

"Don't make promises you can't keep." You can hear the perk to the man's voice, a smile through his tone. "I can keep it." You confirm without another beat, gulping back your tongue.

"I can keep my promises."

"I swear on my heart."

[meatsaint]

In Spite Of Us.

Modern Aemond x Reader. PT2

Summary: The lines tangle tighter, pulling you and Aemond into something neither of you can fully control—something that could cost you everything. But in the end, none of it matters. Not if the pain fades into something you can stomach. Not if you can tell yourself it’s worth it. Even if he leaves you in ruins, painted in black and blue.

Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. Oral sex, violence, mention of illegal activities, incest, dub-consent, aggression, degradation, mention of blood, childhood trauma, mention of attempted suicide.

The mornings were fucking hell. Shafts of light pierced through every crack, heating up the room that was already suffocating with the windows closed tightly. You'd learned better than to leave them open, or anything else, for that matter. One slip and it was over—whether it was the cops or the worst of the fucking dragnet. Who wanted your head more at this point? Hard to say. Aemond wasn't making it any easier, carving his own path through this mess. The blood was heavy on your side, stained deep under your nails, but his? Worse. At this point, it was hard to tell. The chipped black polish on his nails was the only dead giveaway.

Aemond used to grunt in his sleep, tossing and turning, his restless movements making the bed feel like a battlefield. Meanwhile, you were as still as a statue beside him, and he couldn't help but wonder how the hell you managed it. But today? Today was different. He woke up without the usual weight of a hangover, his eyes snapping open, the light cutting through the room like a blade. His hand instinctively found his face, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to shake off the drowsiness, but it was futile. Some mornings, he just wanted a shock straight to the skull—anything to wake him up fully and get rid of that corpse-like heaviness dragging at his bones.

Rolling over, his gaze landed on you, as always. Lying on your side, eyes closed, still wrapped up in the sleep-induced haze. He knew you wouldn't wake up now, not with the crap you shoved down your throat every night just to knock yourself out. It was the usual routine. Him waking up first, having to shower alone, eating alone—shit, he didn’t even get to share the fucking morning with you. It pissed him off, made him want to pinch you from head to toe just to see if you'd stir, maybe open those damn eyes and remind him that you were still here. Still fucking human. Still present.

But he didn't move, not yet. Instead, he just watched you, lying there so still, almost serene. Usually, you were a pain in the ass—your tongue sharp, always quick with a retort, too fast for your own good. But like this? Like this, you were calm, a whole different side of you that made his gaze linger longer than it should. It was almost unsettling how peaceful you looked, and he couldn't shake the thought of how fucking strange it was to see you this way.

It was like those beaches he’d seen in pictures, the ones with the waters so blue they looked almost unreal, like a fucking dream. On a hot day, you'd dive in without thinking, wanting to swim every inch of that vast, sparkling expand until your body ached and your lungs burned. But there was always a little sign, tucked away just out of sight, warning you: beware sharks. And even if it looked inviting, even if every instinct screamed at you to dive in, you knew better. One wrong move, and those sharks would rip you to shreds before you could even get tired.

Yet, the thought of being devoured, of sinking into that cold embrace, was oddly tempting. The idea of being consumed by you, torn apart and remade—yeah, that sounded fucking good to him. Almost too good.

Aemond's breath escaped him in a heavy sigh, as if exhaling his thoughts right along with the air, the weight of them pressing on him like an invisible burden. He tore his gaze away from you, reluctantly letting the stillness of your form fade from his view. With a sluggish movement, he sat up, his body protesting the action with every subtle shift. His muscles felt like they were made of stone, every tiny movement pulling at something inside him, making him ache. He glanced around the room to make sure everything was where it should be—nothing out of place. The blue light still bathed the walls in its soft glow, although it lacked the same intensity it had at night.

He stretched, hoping to shake off the lingering heaviness of sleep, but it only worked halfway, leaving a faint ache in its place. His eyes found you again, just from the corner.

Fuck this. Fuck you, he thought.

His gaze, whether he intended it or not, traced the contours of your body. The curve of your hips barely concealed by your panties, your torso only covered by a sheer white tank top, your breasts almost visible, your nipples subtly outlined, calling to him, even if unknowingly. Your body always beckons to him, regardless of the situation, the mood, or the moment. Every woman has an itch, and he knows yours is him. There's no other explanation, and he wouldn't accept any alternative.

His body moved as if he was being called by a siren. The not-so-gentle hands turned your body so you were lying on your back and giving him a better view. You groaned softly, but didn't really wake up. Your body, swallowed by heaviness and sleep, too heavy to actually do anything. Vulnerable, open. Everything Aemond likes, everything he wants. Like a fucking leech, or maggots crawling on dead flesh feeding on what's left of a life, he feeds on these moments. Control, pure and raw. Over everything, over you.

His fingers clawed at your legs, dragging himself across the bed like a really silently predator stalking its prey until he was nestled between your spread thighs, squatting on his heels. His fingers, cold and unyielding, scraped down your thighs, seizing your ankles with a tight grip. He dragged them, forcing your feet to frame his body on the bed, keeping your legs wrenched apart, exposing you. You were so fucking malleable under his hands, like he could take you apart and put you back together however the fuck he wanted, twist your body into any perverse shape his dark mind conjured. And he loved it, loved how you were his to corrupt.

"I'm hungry," he murmurs, the words dripping with that familiar, chilling tone. You've heard it before, countless times, in various contexts, knowing damn well what it means when he says it like that. It's not about food.

He fucking knows you remember, too. The times when there was no food, or when dad, that piece of shit, would beat you until you were sick. The leather belt, the shine of the silver buckle in the dim light, always after a meal, when your stomachs were full. And on your knees, he’d beat you until vomit painted the floor, until there was nothing left but the acrid taste of bile. He remembers that bastard's smile, how he'd grab him by the hair, forcing his face into the mess he'd made. He remembers the shaking, the pain, the hunger that followed. He remembers you.

Like a fucking feast, like you are now.

His fingers slithered over your skin, their tips sneaking under your tank top, feeling the fabric’s edge. He watched as goosebumps erupted across your thighs, your body betraying its response to his touch. Like it always fucking does. When his hunger was palpable, it didn't matter if your eyes were wide open or shut tight, if your mind was with him or lost in some dark dreamscape behind those lids. He'd always been this way, and you? You'd always allowed it. Ever since before that son of a bitch's death, when he first felt you wrapped around him, when you heard him jerking off to thoughts of you at night, whimpering into your ear, his hips grinding against you. You'd always let him because you want him; you fucking need him.

And you'll get it. You bet your ass you will.

His fingers ascend, dragging the fabric of your shirt with them, baring your breasts to his ravenous gaze. At the mere sight of your skin, his mouth waters. Your head turns aside on the pillow, a low moan escaping you. You feel the heat spreading through your torso, warm and alive. His fingers then travel down to your panties, hooking his thumbs into the waistband and slowly dragging them down your thighs, letting them fall to the floor. His eyes lock onto your pussy, so fucking perfect for him. Always so fucking perfect, so good. How in hell could something this delectable even exist?

"I'm hungry," Aemond murmured again, his teeth grazing his lower lip as he visually consumed your intimate space, as if he hadn't already memorized every inch with his own senses.

He lowers himself, almost flattening against the bed, his long fingers digging into the meat of your thighs. He takes a moment to savor the view from this angle, your little cunt in his face, his gaze traveling up past your breasts to your face, turned away, lips parted, teeth just visible. So fucking beautiful, it makes him want to rip your face to shreds with his bare hands, to create chasms with his teeth, to chew on the pieces. He could do it, he wants to do it. But somewhere deep down, he knows that even if your flesh were torn apart, you'd still be this oppressive tightness in his chest. And he fucking hates it.

"And you're going to feed me, aren't you?" he whispers against your skin, his breath hot as it fans over your heat, noticing the slight twitch of your leg beside his head, but nothing more.

His tongue extends from your entrance to your clit, dragging up to your lower stomach, the sensation of his warm tongue unmistakable even through the haze of your disjointed thoughts, the weight of your limbs anchoring you to the bed. His lips return with increased urgency, one hand gripping your thigh, pulling it to his mouth, his teeth sinking into the skin of your inner thigh, while the other hand rises to grab one of your breasts, his fingertips pressing into the flesh. Your breath quickens, your chest rising and falling with mounting intensity.

His tongue traced a path down your inner thigh before making its way back to your core, not wasting time before delving in. It rolled between your folds, coating them with his saliva. As his tongue danced over your entrance again, the taste of your arousal hit him, eliciting a moan from deep within. Your body responded to every touch, tightening, a dim light seeping through your closed eyelids, though the two purple pills you'd ingested the night before made full consciousness elusive, your reactions slowed, your desires muted.

"You're getting all wet for me, little dove," he murmured, his voice low, muffled by your pussy, with no intention of pulling away to speak further. "Dirty girl, I should rip your throat open for this." A growl rumbled from him, his eyes closing as he sank deeper, his entire being focused on the sensations his mouth was exploring, leaving all his senses tethered to the act of licking you everywhere.

Your lips part further, a moan slipping through, your brows knitting together, etching a line of tension on your face. Your hips begin to shift weakly on the bed, up and down, your whimpers soft and muffled by fatigue. Aemond responds with his own sounds against your intimacy, taking full advantage of your semi-conscious state to vocalize his pleasure unrestrainedly. His fingers play with the nipple he's captured, giving it a sharp tug to jolt you further into awareness. Your legs, on either side of his head, fall open wider.

It's too good, too fucking good.

So good that you're unaware when your fingers find their way to the back of his neck, tangling in his black hair, pulling him closer in an instinctive, desperate plea for more.

Aemond freezes.

Your heart pounded like a drum, the shock of wakefulness like a slap across your face. Sweat beaded at your temples, and when you looked down, Aemond's eyes were already locked on you, his mouth still against you. The room seemed to stand still, time itself arrested. The chill that ran through you was like a bolt of ice, your senses suddenly sharp but tainted.

You attempted to rise, but he pounced, his hands reaching for your neck while your legs thrashed to push him off. You knew you were doomed if he pinned you down. Aemond grappled with your flailing arms, your nails raking his skin each time he tried to seize your wrists. But your resistance was faltering, and you knew this could be the end.

His fist slammed into your jaw, snapping your head to the side, blood erupting from your nose onto the pillows. His thighs clamped over yours, holding you down, but you still fought. His hands pressed your shoulders into the mattress, aiming for your neck, when you clawed at his throat, your nails digging in deep. A pained grunt escaped him as he clutched the bleeding marks you left on his neck. You seized the moment to free one leg, using your foot to shove his chest back.

"You fucking bitch!" Aemond's yell reverberated, but there was no time for discussion.

You hit the floor with a thud, a groan of pain escaping you. You saw Aemond beginning to rise from the bed, coming for you, and despite the difficulty, you managed to scramble up, staggering as you bolted. You collided with furniture, each impact a jolt of pain, while behind you, Aemond closed in with purposeful strides, his fists balled, jaw clenched tight. He was boiling over, rage spilling out like steam from an overfilled pot, threatening to scald you.

You made it to the living room, positioning yourself behind the small glass dining table. Aemond appeared in the doorway, his heartbeat almost audibly pounding, the intensity of it pressing against the air in your throat. Your naked body felt too exposed, his gaze raking over you, but not with lust. No, this was the look of someone intent on tearing you apart, letting you bleed out.

"Stay the fuck away from me!" you scream, knowing your words would fall on deaf ears. This wasn't the Aemond you knew; it couldn't be, not in this state.

He moved to the other side of the table, effectively blocking your escape route to the kitchen where you might have grabbed a knife. His eyes, wide and void, met yours, almost lifeless. Your palms were slick with sweat, your feet rooted to the spot despite your mind screaming to move. The mantra echoed in your head, 'he's coming for you.'

"Run," Aemond said, his voice laced with a sinister glee, his smile all teeth, gleaming menacingly.

And you didn't hesitate.

Your feet propelled you forward, his hot on your heels, the air barely making it into your lungs. You clutched the bathroom door frame, ready to dart inside, when his arms encircled your waist, lifting you off the floor. Your legs flailed, your hands clawing at his arms to break free, his grip squeezing your ribs like a vise. He began to retreat, pulling you with him, but you reacted swiftly. Your elbow slammed into his ribs, and when he didn't release you, your head snapped back into his, his sharp cry of pain mingling with the force that sent you sprawling to the ground.

"Fuck!" he shouted, his fingers pressing against his newly bloodied nose, courtesy of your counterattack.

You scrambled across the floor, more like a creature than a human, managing to slip through the bathroom door. You locked it with trembling hands. The door shook under the assault of Aemond's fists, each impact making you jump back, landing on your rear. The wood seemed on the verge of splintering with every hit. Your eyes darted around; there was a small window, but it was too narrow for escape. You'd tried before; it was impossible.

"Open the fucking door!" he yells, his punch so forceful it seems to bruise his knuckles, but the pain is the last thing on his mind now, only you matter. "It's going to be much worse for you, much worse!" His voice drips with venom, and with truth; it would indeed be worse.

But you don't care. Using the sink for support, you stand, and in the mirror, you see the blood trails from your nose to your lips. Your hips will soon bruise from the collisions with furniture and the floor. Desperation grips you as you pull at your own hair, each knock on the door a reminder of your vulnerability. Until his foot slams into the door, and you turn just in time to see it buckle.

You need to do something.

With no time for thought, your fist smashes into the mirror, glass exploding in all directions. The sound halts Aemond's assault briefly, as does your sharp cry of pain, your blood now dripping from your cut knuckles onto the white tiles. You frantically search for the largest, sharpest piece of glass among the debris, feeling the sting of tiny crystals under your nails.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Aemond's voice escalates with new urgency.

With another powerful kick, the door gives way, splinters mixing with your blood on the floor. Aemond's gaze locks on the bloody glass in your hand, his own rage intensifying. Eye to eye, you brace for what's to come.

He's coming for you, so you come for him too.

Aemond steps forward, and so do you; the glass slices the side of his arm, drawing blood. He staggers back, clutching the wound, and you advance, but he quickly seizes your wrist, twisting it viciously. It feels like he might break it, your fingers crushed further into the glass, embedding it into your palm. A scream tears from your lips, tears at the corners of your eyes. You're forced to release the shard, which shatters on the floor. With a knee to your stomach, Aemond sends you crashing down, all air exiting your lungs.

Slowly, he kneels beside you, watching your mouth open in a silent scream, your hand clutching your stomach as if to hold yourself together. Fucking pathetic, he thinks, the urge to spit in your face, to make you swallow every piece of broken glass on the floor overwhelming him.

"I should make you chew this whole fucking glass right off the floor." His threat is punctuated by him grabbing your hair, yanking your face closer to his.

Your pained expression feeds into him. He's aware he's using you as a punching bag, treating you like you're worthless, and he doesn't feel an ounce of remorse. Perhaps he will when the rage subsides, but when does it ever truly subside? Was it ever meant to? He doesn't know. But he's hard, painfully so under his underwear, throbbing with every tear that escapes your eyes, consumed by a frenzy that's pure and intense.

He slams your head back onto the ground with all his might. You squeeze your eyes shut, but there's no escaping the pain. Both his hands encircle your neck, and to prevent any more tricks, he kneels on your thighs, his weight crushing your flesh, drawing a scream that's stifled by the lack of air. There's a high-pitched sound in your ears, reminiscent of chairs scraping or the squeaky springs of that old swing in the dilapidated playground where you once played, where you felt like you could touch the clouds when he pushed you. You almost wish you could now.

"Die! Why wont you die?!" Aemond screams into your face, but you know he's not seeing you; he's not screaming at you.

Your hands claw at him, your nails raking down his bare chest, only adding to your torment. Aemond's eyes close, his body shaking above you. His nails dig deeper into your neck, darkness enveloping your vision. Your back arches in one last attempt to free yourself, and a loud, pained moan escapes Aemond as he climaxes in his underwear, the sensation so intense it could have shattered him instead of you. The pressure becomes unbearable, your lips parting in a futile attempt to breathe. Your eyes close, and you're thrown into a cold, black abyss. Alone.

Nights always carried a kind of mercy. The cold slipped through the cracked window, brushing against the room like a quiet apology for the chaos that had come before. The neon blue light pulsed faintly, painting the walls with something soft, almost alive. You’d always thought the blue was too sad, but Aemond liked it, so it stayed. Yet tonight, when you opened your eyes, it wasn’t blue filtering through your lids. No, it was clear light—sharp and unkind. Strange.

Then the ache hit. It was everywhere, spreading from your fingers to your chest like it had been carved into your very bones. Every muscle in your body screamed, raw and heavy, like you’d become one giant bruise. And maybe you had.

Your eyes moved across the room, desperate to find him. Your chest tightened when you didn’t see him straight away, and panic started to set in. But just as you shifted, ignoring the pain in your ribs, the bedroom door swung open, and there he was.

Aemond stepped inside, his movements deliberate, his frame cutting a sharp silhouette against the light. He was dripping wet, his hair clinging to his shoulders in dark strands, wearing nothing but jeans slung low on his hips. In his hand, he carried a white plastic bag, casual as ever.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice steady and low. The sound of it cut through the stillness, grounding you in a way that nothing else could.

You glanced down at yourself, noticing the oversized shirt hanging loosely off your shoulders and a pair of sweatpants that didn’t belong to you. His, clearly. You caught sight of your wrist next, carefully wrapped in white splints. The work was precise, too meticulous to have been done by anyone but him.

“Hey,” you croaked back, your voice barely above a whisper. It felt foreign in your throat, raw and strained. The bitterness in your mouth confirmed what you already suspected—he’d forced some medicine into you while you were out. It was just like him.

He moved closer to the bed, his gaze fixed on you as he settled on the edge. The space between you was thin, almost nonexistent, but it still felt like a gulf. You studied him, and he studied you right back. The marks on his skin stood out against the pale light—your nails had left their trails, violent and deliberate, carving down his neck, chest, and arms. There was a deeper wound too, one from the glass, glinting faintly in the morning light.

And he saw it too—the purple bruises on your neck, stark against your skin. His fingerprints. They sat there like inked tattoos. He likes them a lot.

“Do you want a picture?” Your voice cut through the silence, hoarse but steady, your words laced with that sharp edge he knew so well. It didn’t hurt anymore, and that was enough.

“Yeah,” he muttered, almost laughing under his breath. His eye traced your face like he was memorising it, his thoughts catching on the idea. If he had a camera, a good one, and if things were different—better—this house would be covered in you. Your face, your body, your marks. Everywhere. You’d be the only thing worth seeing.

The silence wrapped around you both, not oppressive, but present, like a third figure in the room. His hand, trembling with hesitation, inched towards yours. You caught the flicker of doubt in his movements, and without giving him a chance to second-guess, you reached for him. Your fingers threaded through his, clasping tightly, as if sealing a quiet promise neither of you dared to speak aloud.

The thought settled again at the base of your skull: If it doesn’t hurt anymore, it’s okay. Even if every inch of you was bruised and battered, flesh stained in shades of blue and black, it didn’t matter. It was just a body, after all—just skin and bone. Nothing more, nothing less.

When his gaze finally met yours, it wasn’t with the depth you might have hoped for. His eye held a flatness, void of the kind of emotion he wished he could express—or the kind you sometimes wished you could see. But you’d long since stopped expecting it. He didn’t know how to show it, couldn’t, and that was all right. You had learned to live in the spaces between what he gave and what he withheld. In the end, you told yourself, it would be bearable. Even if the walls of this house crumbled into ash one day, you’d both still be here.

Your eyes searched his, and his mirrored the same dance. Without warning, he pulled hard on your hand, yanking you forward until your chests collided. His arms snaked around your shoulders, locking you into him, as if he were holding on for dear life. Instinctively, your hands found his waist, drawing him closer, your fingers gripping tightly as if the two of you could weld together. Your face nestled perfectly into the curve of his neck—a hollow that seemed carved for you alone. A place to rest, and perhaps even to bite when the need arose.

Holding him like this felt steady. Familiar. Safe. Just as the bruises and scratches had their place, so did the moments like this—the quiet inhalation of his scent, the way your arms clutched at him like he might disappear. It was measured, restrained, the intimacy meted out in doses small enough not to overwhelm. Anything more would be unbearable, tipping into something too raw, too unmanageable.

“I brought you something,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. Slowly, he pulled back, just enough to meet your gaze again.

You said nothing, only watched as his hands left you to reach for the white plastic bag he’d brought in earlier. His fingers dipped inside, searching like a child eager to reveal a secret treasure. When he finally pulled it free, the golden wrapper caught the light, and your eyes locked onto the familiar shape of the chocolate bar.

Of course. It was always this. Sweetness. That was what he saw in you, wasn’t it? Something indulgent. You didn’t mind, not really. Even though you knew it was fleeting—your teeth would rot eventually, fall out maybe. The ants might come, leaving trails of fire across your skin. But none of that mattered, not when the sweetness melted on your tongue. He always brought it to you. Always.

You take the bar from his hand, tearing it open with your teeth like you’ve got no time for subtlety, the wrapper crinkling loud enough to fill the silence. Chocolate smears across your fingers as you peel it back, and you pause for a second, staring him down before sinking your teeth into it. A big bite—half the damn thing gone already. Aemond watches you for a moment, his lips twitching like he’s trying not to smirk, but then his gaze drops to his hands resting in his lap.

“You need a shower,” he says finally, voice low but firm, cutting through the quiet like a blade. “The Worm wants to see us at the club tonight.”

Your eyes flick up at that, unimpressed, because of course that bastard does.

“Why?” you ask, exhaling the word more than speaking it, your tone halfway between exhaustion and annoyance. You take another bite of the chocolate, letting it melt lazily on your tongue like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

“A little daddy’s boy soirée or something,” Aemond mutters with a shrug. He’s got that look again, the one he always wears when he talks about this shit—a mix of disdain and quiet rebellion. He hates this scene, the pounding music that sounds like it’s on a loop, the suffocating crowds. But then he adds, “There’ll be some good fish,” and his eye meets yours. Just a flicker of understanding passes between you.

The Worm might be a total bastard, but he had a nose for opportunities, especially when it came to sales. The nightclub was his playground, his stage, and let’s not forget his little meth empire ticking along in the background. The man handed you a lifeline—or a leash, depending on how you looked at it—but saying no to him wasn’t exactly an option. He loved to remind you of that whenever he could.

“Yeah, wouldn’t want to keep him waiting,” you mutter, a dry laugh escaping as you finish off the last of the bar, the taste bitter-sweet as it disappears.

Aemond reaches over and plucks the wrapper from your hand, his touch light but deliberate, watching you as you stand. Every muscle in your body protests, stiff and aching, but you ignore it, your bare feet hitting the cold floor with a shiver that shoots straight up your spine. You don’t pause, though. You make for the wardrobe, pulling open the smallest drawer to grab a bra and panties from the mess of clothes stuffed inside. Aemond doesn’t move, doesn’t look up. His fingers stay intertwined, his expression distant, like he’s lost somewhere else.

It’s only when your hand reaches for the door that his voice cuts through again, quiet but razor-sharp.

“I’ll be watching you,” he says, his tone warning but calm, his eye finally lifting to meet your retreating form. “So don’t do anything stupid.”

You let a sly grin slip out before moving on. It's not like you meant to fuck up, not tonight. Could be exhaustion or whatever. Your mess wasn't like Aemond's, not some epic cleanup. Well, at least not usually. You know his real fear is that you'll slit your wrists open and finish what you sometimes started after...incidents. That wasn't your intention tonight.

Your feet drag you to the bathroom, now always wide open thanks to that morning's drama. Inside, it's all spick and span, the sharp scent of bleach hitting you hard. He'd cleaned up, but some things just don't wash away. The door with its frame fucked, the mirror with a new hole in it, and that's it. Everything else, gone, like it usually is. Sometimes you wish you two were like this floor - a little soap and water could sort it out. Fix it up.

You try not to overthink, just strip down and jump into the shower. It's like your second home, scrubbing until your skin's raw. Careful not to drench those bandages he wrapped around your wrist. Eyes shut, you let the water wash you off, even if it's just skin deep.

Drying off and slipping into your undies and bra, you pause for a sec. Just taking a breath before heading back to the bedroom. From the doorway, you spot Aemond in front of the mirror, the little pots of black and white paint open, brush at the ready. His hair's less wet, those heavy black boots already on his feet, leather jacket slung over his shoulders, no shirt beneath. He turns, eyes sweeping over you, unabashed. Head cocked to the side for a moment.

"Help me with this." It's not a request, it's a command, part of the routine.

You don't think twice before stepping up, and neither does he. Aemond slides down in the chair, legs spreading wider, an open invite. You take it, hands on his shoulders for balance, swinging a leg over to sit on him. His hands lock onto your waist, holding you steady.

"Want something special tonight?" you ask, leaning down for one of the black eyeliner pencils.

Aemond's gaze travels your body again, you sitting there like he's your personal, ragged throne. His eyes crawl back up to yours, meeting them dead on. Yeah, he wants something special, but it's not about the paint or the lines on his face.

"Just the usual," Aemond says, his eyes flicking back and forth between yours, pupils blown wide.

You nod, leaning in to start sketching the lines on his face with the precision of someone who's done this dance before. When Aemond does it himself, it's all over the place, but you manage to make it look halfway decent. Not that it's supposed to be pretty; it's more about the vibe. With the eyeliner, you draw from his eyebrows down to his nose, stopping at the tip, then circle around his eye, connecting back to the other brow. It's rough, forming something like a triangle - shapes blurred and edgy. Moving to the other side, his eyes track you, locked on as your face scrunches in focus.

"You know I wanted to kill you, don't you?" Aemond mutters, pulling your gaze to him for a split second before you both return to the task at hand.

He did want to, no question about it. There was that moment when he saw your eyes close, your body go limp on the floor, and he thought, "This is it." But then he stopped. He didn't regret it; he was fucking glad he did.

"You didn’t." That's all you manage, a whisper, the only reply you've got.

You've thought he might end you, on some other nights, on those dark moments when the beast in him roared to get out because of some shit you pulled - intentional or not. But intentions? They're meaningless here. Not yours, not his, even if his was to squeeze the life out of you.

Aemond just stared, maybe with a hint of appreciation or some twisted form of affection. He couldn't tell if he'd fucked up your head, if he'd made you blind to his true nature, the chaos he brought into your life. He saw himself as a plague, infecting everything he touched, and he reveled in it, in you.

"I should take you to the beach sometime." Aemond's voice was low, almost a whisper, and you couldn't help but smile a bit. He'd mentioned it before, but it always felt like a fantasy.

He loathes the beach, despises the sun. The sand that grinds into knees, leaving them raw. Mum and dad never took you, and before that, the orphanage was all shades of gray. There was no sun there, and his pale skin seemed to thrive in the absence of it. You didn't miss what you'd never known.

"Yeah? What do you want to do there?" You play along with the dream, knowing it's probably never going to happen.

Your fingers grab a brush, dipping it into the white paint. You start painting his face, careful not to touch the dark lines around his eyes. His breath is heavier now, chest heaving in what seems like a thoughtful sigh.

"I don't know, just watch you swim." His reply is soft, his words hitting you like a gentle wave. "Some Sunday just watch you get pounded by the waves and some purple and blue in the sky. Being the only motherfuckers filling the place with smoke.”

A low chuckle escapes you as you shake your head, your fingers continuing their task with the white paint, transforming his face into something that feels more like a phantom than the man you know. You'd like that, at some point, to see him in such a scene. Perhaps perched on that motorcycle in some secluded spot, hiding from the sun, a cold beer in hand. His blue eyes would mirror the sea, his silver hair the sky, though you know he'd never let them be seen again. It's all just a daydream.

"Would you be there?" he asks, causing your hand to pause, the brush set aside.

The question strikes you as almost absurd. There are so many answers to it. He's pulling himself into the abyss, into a personal hell with all its promised torment, and you'd follow if only to hold his hand. Your answer is always yes, never no. He knows this, and still, he asks.

"I would be wherever you were," you confess in a whisper, meeting his gaze with unfiltered honesty, more than you'd wish to reveal, more than you could ever conceal.

His eyes shift from yours to your lips, perhaps searching for the taste of those words, or seeking some unclaimed piece of your skin to press them against. He doesn't speak, but the silence says he'd be with you too. You're like a persistent bit stuck in his teeth; no amount of licking or prodding or thinking he's had enough or moved you aside would ever truly dislodge you. Ever.

You pause, focusing back on the brush, cleaning off the white paint and dipping into black. The brush follows the eyeliner's path, shaping the design more distinctly. It's not your best work, but it's far from your worst, even if it's not art gallery material. But it'll do.

"It looks good," you murmur, more to yourself than to him, knowing better than to stroke his ego too much.

Aemond's eyes are locked on your lips, reading your words off them rather than through sound. His breath is warm, careful not to move and ruin your work. He's learned from experience you wouldn't like that.

"Yeah, it does." His gaze shifts up, impatience simmering under his skin. Being still isn't his forte.

With the final stroke, you complete the look. The white paint has dried, melding into his skin like a second layer. As you move to get up, his hands reluctantly slide off your waist, resting back in his lap. You take a moment to admire him - the corpse paint fitting him like a second skin, like he was born to wear it. The desire to have him take you, right there over the paints, until your drool becomes part of the artwork, is intense.

"Take a look," you say, motioning towards the mirror, keeping your darker thoughts at bay. If you let them out, there'd be no stopping.

Aemond looks into the mirror, not seeing himself but the mask he's donned. It's good, it's something. Just paint, toxic and transformative, embodying much of him yet not all. It's good, truly good.

You head to the closet, pulling out one of the usual dresses - same color, similar cuts, limited choices. Slipping it on, the fabric clings to your body, barely covering your thighs, the straps mingling with those of your bra. As you adjust it, Aemond turns, catching the motion of you smoothing it over your hips, his teeth catching his lower lip. You're a vision of sin, a gift to behold, stoking the fire in his veins and elsewhere.

You sit at the bed's foot, tugging on your black knee-high boots, similar to his but with higher heels. Aemond approaches just as you zip up, standing close enough that you nearly collide when you rise. His silent steps are always so damn stealthy. Your eyes lock, and without a word, he kneels before you, your gaze tracking him down, lips parting slightly.

Your heart races. He lifts your dress, bunching it at your waist, revealing you in just your panties. You anticipate warmth, but what you feel is cold. Opening your eyes, you see the pocket knife he's just stuck in your panties.

"You know how to use it," he murmurs, his breath teasingly close to where you're most sensitive, a slight dampness forming. "So use it if you need to."

He stands, eyes never leaving yours, fingers sliding the dress back down, covering you once more. It's like a cold splash of reality or a sharp stab of withdrawal; he steps away, and you close your eyes, trying to steady yourself, regain some semblance of control. He moves to the table, grabs his keys, cigarettes, and lighter.

"I'm going to get the bike out of the garage. Don't delay." His tone is devoid of warmth as he heads for the door, leaving you in the center of the room.

You adjust your dress, feeling the pulse of anger and desire because that bastard always knows exactly what he's doing. The knife's tip, so provocatively close to your core, feels like a taunt. You hate him, more than when he breaks you apart. With that hatred, you move to where he was sitting and look at your reflection, noting the bruise on your jaw that you'll need to conceal with makeup. Not for the opinions of those at the club, you couldn't care less about them.

But, that's what you do. You cover his marks. And tonight, you'll do it again.