#i have a little wooden box that i keep all my teeth in and by that i mean yes mine but also my sisters and my friends teeth...

[kitkat13001]

thinkin’ bout ₊˚⊹♡ husband!sanemi ♡₊˚⊹

♡ husband!sanemi who cried like a baby on your wedding day.

♡ husband!sanemi who holds your hand in the marketplace and lets you tug him along to go see whatever it is you want to see — a new rug, a vase, a little trinket you’ve got absolutely no space or use for.

♡ husband!sanemi who hogs the covers at night and cheekily insists you have to cuddle up close with him if you want to get underneath them to get warm. 

♡ husband!sanemi who lets you sleep in on your day off, wakes up early to do laundry and make breakfast and kiss you on the forehead when you finally wake up towards noon.

♡ husband!sanemi who sits next to you in pillar meetings, your pinkies linked on the wooden floor as the master speaks. 

♡ husband!sanemi who keeps watch while you rest on a mission, vigilant and alert. nothing’s going to hurt you, not on his watch—even if he has to stay up all night. 

♡ husband!sanemi who just grits his teeth and takes it while you beat his ass for being mean to genya, dragging him away by the ear as you berate him loud enough for the entire house to hear.

♡ husband!sanemi who doesn’t hold back on you in pillar training, knowing you can take it. he just wants to make sure you’re at your best. he can’t have you slacking off in the field, y’know?

♡ husband!sanemi who patches you up quietly by the fire at night after he’s beat your ass in training all day. his touch is gentle now, fingers ghosting over your bruises and wrapping bandages around your cuts. if it’s really bad, he’ll kiss you better. 

♡ husband!sanemi who fights to get you on missions together so he can look out for you, but if he can’t, will kiss you good luck and tell you he loves you before you leave. 

♡ husband!sanemi who waits at the door for you to come back, keeping dinner warm on the stove, and sprints across the lawn when he sees the outline of your form coming up the hill to the wind estate. 

♡ husband!sanemi who keeps the letters you write him while you’re away in a box in the closet, and reads them when he misses you (he’ll die before admitting this much). 

♡ husband!sanemi who, with your help, finally manages to begin mending his relationship with his younger brother. who stops, arms full of food, in the doorway when he sees you and genya sitting at the table together during dinner, laughing and eating. who is overwhelmed by the love he has for his little family, and who would fight with everything he has to protect it. 

divider by @/saradika-graphics — sacchan….my sacchan….please. i am so very soft for him. anyways, i’ve been sitting on these for a while and decided to lock in and finish it. hope you like! love, - 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚢

[ashmp3]

i am the hot girl with teeth box in her room hello welcome and hope you enjoy your stay. leave your teeth as an offering if you love me.

[mazikeenhyde]

All is Fair in Love, War and Dominant Fuckery - Part 2

POLY JUDGMENT DAY – 18+ - MINORS DNI! 

WARNING – FULL ANGST  - FIGHTING (PHYSICAL&VERBAL), CHEATING, DRUGS, ED, DOMVS SUB etc 

WRESTLER-READER (female)  X WWE JUDGMENT DAY – RHEA RIPLEY, DAMIAN PRIEST, DOMINIK MYSTERIO, FINN BALOR 

-Part 2 -

Finn and I had gotten back home a lot later than I expected, we had trained for a solid three hours in a local gym. He mainly focused on the weights section and training his already perfect abs. Meanwhile I was imagining Dom’s face on the punching bag and let all hell break loose, as I knocked the ever-loving shit out of it repeatedly, cussing the twat under my breath. Don’t get me wrong, I loved Dominik with all my heart, I loved every single one of them. But at times Dom could be such a dick, especially since the whole Liv Morgan storyline had started. He was different, he acted like a whole new person at times. I could sit back and close my eyes just imagining how much I would love to just throttle him until he begged me to stop, except when he would be pleading with me, I wouldn’t… not at first anyway. 

As we made our way into the house it was dark, the lights were all off and the hallways silent. Kissing my forehead Finn quietly turned and crept upstairs as he was ready to shower and crash in bed. Same routine as ever for me, I needed to get a drink of water and have a moment to myself before I could turn off for the night. 

Making my way into the kitchen I reached out and flicked on the undercounter lights, knowing full well they wouldn’t be half as bright as if I turned on the main one. I didn’t want to disturb the others who I imagined were all fast asleep, but I was wrong. 

The second the light came on a dark figure leaning against the kitchen Island, mere inches in front of me came into full view. It was Rhea, and she was pissed. 

Her eyes, like dark inviting pools you could easily drown in glared down at me as she stood with her arms crossed. Adorning her black skinny jeans and laced corset top her fingers tapped against her skin, running her nails along her bicep. 

“Don’t Lie to me y/n.” She stated, bluntly, calmly and without any emotion. 

Stepping to the side I spotted a small wooden box behind her, and I recognized it all to well. It had been hidden in my bedside cabinet. It was private, and I knew the only person who had found out about it, obviously couldn’t keep their mouth shut. 

“little cunt” I muttered under my breath, closing my eyes for a second, but I was rather sharply bought back into reality as Rhea lunged herself forward, wrapping a hand around my throat and pushing me back, pinning me against the kitchen wall behind. Her grasp around my throat tightened and her eyes burned a whole wave of fury like I had never witnessed before. 

A part of me was terrified in that moment, the other part a little turned on. But the fear was definitely winning. 

“I’m not playing with you y/n.” Rhea spat out as her other hand slammed against the wall right next to my face. 

Her grip around my throat loosened as she took a tight hold to the front of my hoodie instead and threw me forward, tossing me straight into the kitchen island. I fell forward, stomach taking the full impact as I braced over the counter and paused trying to catch my breath. Rhea came up behind me and taking a handful of my hair pulled me back up so I was standing again and whispered in my ear. 

“Open it.” 

But I dare not, I knew what she would say, and she would never understand. 

“No.” I muttered silently, full of fear yet I knew the contents of that box needed to stay secret. 

Rhea seemed genuinely surprised by my response for a second as her grasp on my hair got tighter. 

“What did you say?” She spat out through gritted teeth, taking in a sharp deep breath and inhaling my scent. The smell of sweat and fear only further fueled that dominant side of her. 

“I said…NO!” I tried to shout as I attempted to escape her grasp. 

“I can open it…” a soft and quiet voice came from the shadowed hallway behind us. Rhea turned, pulling me with her as we both turned to see Dominik, in his black and yellow checkered pajama trousers and Latino Cheat t-shirt.

The boy took a step forward as Rhea released her grip on my hair and I took a step back, staring Dominik down. 

“Don’t you fucking dare” I stated, staring a hole through him, but I could tell he was enjoying being able to one up me. 

Before either of them could move I lept onto the Island countertop grabbing the box and holding it up in the air, away from their reach. 

 “FUCK OFF, JUST, JUST FUCK OFF THE LOT OF YOU!...”I paused to take a breath, “Why can’t you all just get out of my space, just get out of my, of my life for like 5 minutes!” I screamed, clearly loud enough that Damian and Finn had come downstairs and entered the kitchen as well in time to hear my great speech. They both seemed both surprised and a little worried at the sight of Rhea and Dominik standing at the base of the kitchen counter while I had somehow made my way to the top, waving a little wooden box in the air like it was the holy grail. 

Finn stared up at me as Damian walked to the side, unfortunately for me being a short arse in comparison he could still reach my hands, even if my arms were fully stretched out. Wrapping one large arm around my waist he pulled me down while pulling the box out from my hand with the other and passing it over to Rhea. 

“No Damian, stop! Please!” I pleaded as he placed me down on my feet and stood behind me. He held his arms out and held me in a tight embrace, it was both comforting and a little uneasy all at the same time. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to be nice or just keep me still. 

Dom smirked at me, offering a wink, like he was so pleased he could screw with me once again. Ever since Summer Slam he had found a new personality trait he was thriving off. This whole I’m better than everyone and I’m such a bad boy, blah blah blah. Even if I loved him, his behavior made me wanna knock him out so badly. He reached out his arm to take the box from Rhea, but she flicked his hands away, never breaking eye contact with me. 

“Nah, that’s not how we are going to play this.” Her Azzie accent was thick, deep and felt all to emotionally invested in this very moment. 

Slamming the box on the countertop she slid it over towards me, her eyes glaring through her dark eyeshadow. I could tell something in her had clicked. 

“You want us out of your space, out of your life? Fine” she said, taking a step forward and placing one finger below my chin to raise it up to meet her, tears welling up in my eyes. She didn’t care though; you would think she was enjoying it.  

“If this is so important to you, that it means more than what we have? Know damn well, that regardless of what anyone else thinks… I expected better from you, y/n” 

Great, way to make me feel shit. I was getting the I’m not angry, just disappointed lecture.

“But Rhea? She…” Dom interjected but before he could finish I had finally had enough of him. Breaking away from Damian’s grasp I pushed passed Rhea and in one swift move, my fist collided with Dom’s face. 

“FOR ONCE CAN YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP!” I screamed as he fell back, gripping his face. 

Damian was quick to grab a hold of me as Rhea got in between us and Finn latched onto  Dominik before he could retaliate. 

“You always gotta cause trouble don’t you y/n! You’ve always gotta be the center of attention!” He spat, wrestling with Finn’s grip. “Love over Loyalty y/n! and here you are keeping secrets!”   

“HA! That’s rich! Seems like you’re the attention whore these days, parading around RAW like your some GOD!” I tussled and escaped Damian’s grip as Rhea latched her arm around my front while I got in Dom’s face. 

“Funny thing, bringing up loyalty Dom Dom… how is Liv?” I questioned smiling, knowing full well I had hit a nerve. His cheek had turned red and was starting to swell at this point. It hurt my heart a little, but my anger soon buried those emotions. 

“That. Is. Just. A. Storyline.” Dom was furious, spitting every word through gritted teeth. I raised my eyebrows enjoying the reaction from him as Rhea pushed me back into Damian who took a tighter hold of me. 

“I Dunno Dom, seems a little too real these days” I offered him a wink, “Did you really need to spend sooooooo much time together outside of WWE’s walls. Someone’s enjoying themselves?” 

“ENOUGH” Rhea shouted, slamming her fist on the counter. “ENOUGH!” 

Just then a familiar ringtone filled the room, and I smirked as Dom’s face turned to his pocket. 

Dom took a hard swallow as Rhea reached into his pocket and glared at the photo of Liv Morgan flashing up on his phone screen. 

“Busted…” I sang out and smiled as Damian’s grip loosened on me. 

Dom threw his arms up and out from Finn as he ran over and grabbed the box from the countertop…

“If I’m going down, you’re coming with me!” he shouted. 

“NO!” I screamed and reached forward as he smashed it onto the floor, exposing its contents on the ground. 

My secret spilled out across the tile floor and not a single member of the judgment day said a word. They just stared at the floor, forgetting for a moment that only seconds before Dom and I were ready to fully knock the shit out of each other.

Rhea turned to look at me, disappointment etched across her face.

"It's not what you think..." I pleaded with her, tears running down my cheeks.

"Then tell me y/n, tell me."

TBC

-Anyone want me to put them on a tag list for part 3? -

[bonny-kookoo]

BONNY-NIMMM PRINCESS IS A KWEEN STORY, NO WORDS 🤷‍♀️🙌🏼 EASILY ONE OF MY TOP FICS SERIES ALREADY 👀 itbemyromanempirenglthisischefskissyourhybridstoriesaresomethingelseforcefeedusallyouwant 🍽️🍽️🍽️

It's currently one of my favorites I won't lie. Warning for slight angst

"Whats-" Jungkook starts, watching you put bag after bag of snacks on the small table in the corner of the practice room.

One after another you keep piling them up, and he realizes most if not all of them are snacks he's eaten before when you were around- so you just bought those you know he likes. But why?

"Where'd you even get all of that?" Jungkook wonders when you put some small boxes of banana milk on the table as well.

"The store." You roll your eyes, before your tail lowers between your legs in.. embarrassment? "..I asked for my credit card and.. complained until I go it for today." You say. "But I was only allowed to buy stuff supervised, so.. this is all I could do." You say.

"Okay.. but why?" He asks, still unsure while you keep jumping around the topic, sitting down on the floor now while playing with the empty plastic bag in your lap.

"...cause you bought me those warm tights yesterday." You mumble. "...and the fluffy socks.."

True, he did do that.

He's noticed you either just wear leggings or otherwise just dresses and skirts- and after you explained to him that you simply don't like pants, he's found that you don't own any warm clothing that would work with something like that. All you have is designer stuff made to be worn on special occasions - but nothing for the cold weather outside. Nothing that's gonna protect your skin against the biting temperatures.

He just.. felt like you needed it, and he could provide it. It wasn't really that expensive, and really, he did kind of went overboard on the small shopping spree all by himself.

"I told you, I don't need anything back." He chuckles, sitting down next to you on the glossy wooden floor. "I did it because I wanted to."

"..still." You shake your head. "I felt bad."

"Hm, okay. I'll take the stuff then. Will that make you feel better?" He asks, and you nod, one of your ears floppy again. It's kind of cute, and it fits you- but he's still curious. "Say, why does.. one of your ears sometimes stand up, and sometimes it doesn't?" He wonders, reaching out to touch it when you look at him.

"Oh- the stylists make it stand up. But it doesn't, normally." You explain. "It's always been like this since I was a pup. But it's ugly, so they.. you know, force it up when they film." You tell him.

"How?" He wonders, confused- when his fingers feel some very small starring almost.

"Uh.. They're like, tiny wires?" You say. "They have tiny little teeth on them. The stylist puts them in here-" You tap a point forward from the side of where your ear sits. "-and then pull it back, so it like, tightens. And that makes it stand most of the time."

Jungkook pauses. That's illegal.

"Do they numb it?" He wonders, trying not to let his anger about it show.

"No, but it's not that bad." You deny. "They've done it since I was small, so I'm used to it. And the little wires dissolve after a day or so, and then it's just a little itchy." You shrug off. "How did your ears stand up like that? They're kind of big.." you joke, and he smiles- though he can't stop thinking about all the things you think are perfectly normal, when they're not.

"You're not ugly like this, alright?" He tells you, holding your folded ear, before he lets go, and looks at you. "With your ear like that, and no makeup, and no fancy designer clothes, I mean."

"I'm not though." You answer. "And that's fine. I like being like this- no one's looking at me when I look like this. Like I'm nothing special, you know?" You say and he sighs, accepting that for now.

Though he already knows, especially when you are like this-

You're very much starting to become someone very special to him.

[fanaticsnail]

The Kissing Booth is CLOSED

There are a few kisses to come!

Masterlist Here

Idle chatter and shrill cries of glee were flung into the air without inhibitions. The wafting scents of sweet candy floss, buttered corn puffs, and roasting smoked meats surrounded your senses. The lingering taste of your last mint-flavored freshening tablet briefly numbed your tongue, before dissipating down your throat behind your freshly cleansed teeth. 

Clicking your tongue, you regained feeling behind your teeth and enjoyed the cooling after-effect rolling over your palate. Patting your thighs as you sat atop the wooden stool, you lulled your head to the side and smiled at the live music serenading you, painting the atmosphere with lively vibrancy.

You did not know what truly possessed you to volunteer for this project. Whether it was the insistence from your closest friend that it’d be good for you, your boss informing you that this would greatly benefit the cause, or simply the fact that you had a few free days to spare and you were bored. It truly did not matter. 

What matters was this: you were here now, eyes shrouded behind a dark blindfold, and sat awaiting the first person to sit across from you.

Your job for the evening: offer your lips in a sweet kiss to those slipping a few leaves of Berry into the jar in front of you.

Now all you have to do is wait…

Rules and Links Below

How to play?

Select a character from One Piece and submit "(Character) for Kissing Booth please" in my ask box. I will answer with the kiss and link it below once it’s done. 

Once a character is kissed, they're kissed! I will try not to do double ups because all characters deserve kisses. If your favorite is taken, please enjoy what I've produced for them!

One kiss per account. Please keep it fair, I want everyone to have a chance to kiss their blorbos. 

They are only drabbles: no full fics, just a little kiss while blindfolded with your favorites. 

No character is off limits, aside from minors. Everyone gets a kiss: humans, fishmen, giant folk, minkfolk alike.

I am completing these between writing my usual fics and drabbles. I wanted to give you something in return for reading my fics, as my little gift to you. Thank you for being here!

Notes I am doing this because I’ve reached a follower milestone and I am so, so happy to have you all here. This community has been beautiful, and I have been made to feel so welcome. The last time I hit a milestone, I wrote some cheek kisses (Part 1 / Part 2). Now come get kissed on the lips while blindfolded, you beautiful people.

Characters

I am going through the list from first in and completing them as they come. Love you, and enjoy your kisses 🐌🖤. Coming soon on the menu.

Paulie for Jintaka-Hane

Luffy for Remisloves

Hongo for Akagami no Laney

Smoker for Sunflowersatori

Aokiji Kuzan for Skullfacedlady

Heat for Nocturnalrorobin

Sir Crocodile for Cartoonykat

Sanji for Vespidphoenix

Shachi for Daydreamer-in-training

Law for Bby-Deerling

Zoro for Indydonuts

Buggy for Rorywritesjunk

[syndrossi]

October Trick or Treat Fill #11: Daemon overhears an upsetting song

There were some great prompts for mad!Daemon and I...ended up taking little pieces from a few. (I started with "Daemon punches Cole" but ultimately stopped because we might get there at some point in the main story.)

So at long last, here are 3.6K words of Daemon experiencing all the emotions, which definitely include anger.

x~x~x

“Why is this so difficult?” Daemon snarled as they stepped back into the busy street.

“Because you are making it difficult,” Laenor said. “Why did you ask me along if you refuse to heed my advice?”

That was six shops along the Street of Kings visited, none of them offering anything remotely worth gifting to his sons. He had only given them two years worth of name day gifts, and each time it grew more difficult to decide upon a worthy one.

He had hoped that Laenor might have insight to offer, but his sons were years younger, while Daemon’s sons often seemed older than their own years. The wooden ships he had gifted Jon had seen some limited use when their cousins visited, but otherwise collected dust on the shelf. He doubted they would show any more interest in wooden knights or horses.

“It must be perfect,” Daemon said, frustration rising.

When his sons’ belongings had arrived from the Gates of the Moon, and Rhaegar had excitedly reached for his harp, Daemon had been met with the harsh realization he still did not know half of the things his sons were interested in. And when he had learned that Jon’s short sword and Rhaegar’s harp had been gifts from an unnamed “benefactor,” he had needed to excuse himself for a rare visit to the yard, where he had hacked a target to pieces with Dark Sister.

Realizing that Otto Hightower had known his sons’ preferences better than he, to have sent the perfect gifts, had filled him with fury at first, but when his energy had finally been spent in the yard, it had turned to hollow grief. I should know these things. I should know their favorite color, what foods they loved as infants, what joys they clung to for comfort in that joyless place.

That Jon had been forced to seek solace in weapons, in bashing training targets to gain some sense of control with he and his brother at Allard Royce’s mercy, while Rhaegar had turned to song to soothe their pain—

Daemon spun away from Laenor, breath hissing through clenched teeth as he fought to master his fury when every part of him screamed with the impulse to burn, to destroy.

“I know where we can go!” Laenor said, voice tight with the forced cheer Daemon had heard him use before to stave off one of Joff’s toddler meltdowns. His cousin raised his arms, palms flat, in a placating gesture when Daemon turned, ready to snap at him.

He exhaled then. Laenor was not the enemy. The man he wished to burn was in the Vale. “Where?”

“Children like secrets, hidden things. Like Jon’s sheath, the one you said Rhaegar gave him.”

That was true, though it set his chest to burning once more at the reminder of another enemy who still drew breath. Rhaegar’s first gift had been taken from Jon the night of their attempted escape, when Crayne had broken bones and threatened him with death, and discarded. His younger son had asked for aid in having a new one made for Jon, who had been moved almost to tears at the gift.

“What do you have in mind?”

“There is a shop nearer to River Row that sells such things. Jeweled boxes with false walls where they can keep their treasures, pouches with hidden pockets that can hide letters or other small things. Oh! There were some fetching brooches and hairpins that conceal tiny knives.”

His sons did enjoy both intrigues and martial pursuits. And although both had their bronze knives now, Rhaegar wore his openly rather than concealed. He might enjoy the novelty of a weapon hidden within a hairpin. It went without saying that Jon would gladly welcome any excuse to be further armed. He had already started to pester Daemon about when they would be considered old enough to wear a sword at their side.

“That sounds promising,” he admitted, earning a smile in response.

The shop in question was so close to the River Row as to nearly be in it, just barely skirting the edge of the sphere of affluence that radiated outward from the base of Aegon’s Hills, where the wealthiest of the city dwelled. The man who greeted them seemed to be a jeweler by trade, but there were enough works of leather that Daemon assumed he had a partner who specialized in such.

It had all that Laenor had described and more, and the jeweler, upon recognizing that he had royal visitors, brought out some richer pieces for their perusal. There was a beautiful pin of garnet and gold, fashioned into the shape of a red dragon that Daemon was immediately drawn to, the head rearing back and wings splayed wide, as though preparing to breathe dragonflame.

It had considerable heft to it, the pin itself wide and tapering to a point, to serve as a sheath for the hidden blade. The hilt and guard were hidden behind the dragon’s head and wings, secured in place to a pair of hooks by leather straps on either side of the guard that could be worked free.

The dagger could hardly be called that, its delicate hilt barely long enough to pinch between his thumb and forefinger, and the blade itself thin, tapering to a needle’s point. But it could stab a man’s flesh, should the need arise, and bleed him capably enough if aimed somewhere vulnerable.

“Can you make two more in this style?” Daemon asked, running his finger over the jewels that formed the scales. “One of sapphire on silver, and one of onyx on bronze?”

Jon did not often wear his hair styled into braids, but he might consider it with a Shadow hairpin that could transform into a tiny blade. The bronze would stand out against his dark hair, just as the blue of the sapphire would in Rhaegar’s light hair.

“For your sons?” The jeweler’s smile faltered for a moment at Daemon’s suspicious frown. “Tales of their hatchlings have spread throughout the city! It would be my honor to fashion pins in their likeness. Would my prince prefer the pins without a blade?”

“No,” Daemon said. He tested the red dragon’s blade with his thumb, which proved acceptably sharp. “It should be just like this one.”

“I can have it completed within a moon, if that is acceptable,” the man said with a bow. “Should I set aside the red dragon pin for when they are complete, or would my prince like to take it with him today?”

Daemon looked at the hairpin, heavy in his hand, and hesitated. He had not planned on seeking any trinkets for himself, but the red of the scales combined with the warm yellow of the dragon’s topaz eyes were too alike Caraxes not to be tempted.

“Here,” Laenor offered, taking the pin from his hand.

He wove the pin through one of Daemon’s side braids, then through the center braid. With just the pin, it would not have been especially stable, but the wings themselves extended into the teeth of a comb, allowing the decorative top piece to be partially secured in place. Daemon turned his head from side to side, then gave a small hop, testing its hold. It would be better served by some center braid knot, with the pin and comb akilter above it, but he could seek suggestions from Rhaenyra when she finally returned.

“It is very fetching,” Laenor said.

“Set it aside,” he said. One for each of us. It would not do to spoil the surprise early by revealing his own.

He added a pair of belt pouches with secret compartments to his purchase, and even took Laenor’s final suggestion, dictating a design for a pair of jeweled boxes with a clever mechanism for triggering the false bottom to spring up when pressed, revealing the hidden space below.

It was not an inexpensive trip, but Daemon had spent little of his royal allowance over his time in the Stepstones. He looked forward to someday bringing the twins with him to the shop, certain they would find other trinkets to their liking within. Once the matters of Volantis and the Stepstones are settled.

They were near enough to a woodworker’s shop that Daemon agreed to one more stop. Laenor had, for once, been inspired by his gift choices and wanted to find some wooden ships for Jace and Luke.

“He also carved their wooden dragons,” Laenor said. “If you’d like any for the twins. His Caraxes was quite a good likeness.”

As they turned onto the next street, they spied a small crowd gathered around a singer who was plucking his lute as he sang a melody Daemon hadn’t heard before, too distant yet to make out the words themselves. They had taken no more than a few steps when Laenor turned abruptly.

“I did not take note of the hour,” he said. “We should return to the holdfast. I can stop by another time.”

The swiftness of his speech spoke to a sudden agitation, and Daemon regarded him with suspicion, not moving to follow. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Laenor said, shoulders slumping after a few seconds of Daemon’s unblinking stare. “I—there is someone I wish to avoid.”

Although his words held the ring of a lie, his gaze did stray toward the singer. Daemon squinted through the crowd to catch a better glimpse of the man. Short, with short brown hair and a plain face. Far from his cousin’s usual type, which was lean, handsome, well-muscled and preferably knighted. And he could think of no other reason Laenor would wish to avoid some singer of common origin.

“Why—?”

“I can explain later.” Laenor grabbed his arm. “Come.”

Daemon easily twisted his arm free, and Laenor’s final protests trailed off as he approached the crowd gathered around the singer. The song was flowery tripe about a pair of Targaryen princes, with two entire verses devoted to their beauty. Such hyperbole was not uncommon in songs about their house.

The song turned slightly ribald then, switching to the lascivious Free Cities of Lys and Myr, whose loveliest slaves could not compare in a verse where their shortcomings were enumerated, with heavy innuendo. A few stretches of broken and butchered Valyrian were sprinkled into the verses, presumably to emphasize the foreign nature of the Free Cities, as the owners of the richest pillow houses conspired to steal away the “hidden jewels of the Iron Throne.”

“You see?” Laenor hissed at him. “It is nothing. We should return.”

Daemon turned to follow, willing to concede just this once, only to halt as the singer moved on to the details of plot, where the “jealous witch of Runestone” struck a bargain with the Lysene slavers.

My sons. Daemon spun back to the singer, too stunned for a moment to hear much of the next verse. It is about my sons.

A purse of fifty-thousand dragons was offered and accepted, and the young twins—fair and dewy-eyed in their innocence—escorted south to Gulltown by a man named Crayne, where the slaver ships awaited. Much was made of his sons’ helplessness, and the slavers’ delight when inspecting their find.

It did not matter that Daemon and Caraxes were made the heroes of the tale, swooping in for a daring, last-minute rescue. Hearing his sons spoken of thus, as objects of desire, as fodder for a Lysene pillow house, brought his blood to a roar in his ears.

“Daemon—” Laenor whispered, seizing his arm once more to halt him from drawing Dark Sister.

“My sons are eight,” Daemon hissed, mind shying away from the knowledge that the pillow houses across the Narrow Sea were notorious for training their pleasure slaves young.

“It is only a song,” Laenor said, straining with both arms now to hold him back. “Nothing happens to them, even in song.”

Laenor’s caution was no match for his fury. Daemon dragged him several steps before his cousin released him at last, and the crowd parted around him as their eyes fell upon his hair, then his unsheathed sword. The singer spotted him last, glancing up from where he had stooped to pick up his earnings, and Daemon lifted him in a single motion, shoving him back into the wall, bringing Dark Sister’s blade to rest just below his jaw.

The man stared back, terrified recognition in his eyes. “My prince. I—”

“Is that song of your creation?” Daemon demanded, the heat of his blood growing with every second he dwelled upon its ugly lyrics.

“No!” the singer gasped, desperately angling his jaw upward to put space between it and Dark Sister’s edge. “There was a singer in Flea Bottom, I learned it from him! And he had learned it from another.”

Daemon searched his gaze for signs of a lie, finding mostly terror, and he turned his head aside, spitting the vilest curses he knew in Valyrian. It has spread then. “What is it called?”

The man swallowed, clearly reluctant to answer. “‘The Pillow Princes.’ I did not name it!”

Laenor had made his way through the crowd after Daemon and put a hand on his shoulder. “Daemon.”

Daemon’s arm strained with the effort of not opening the singer’s throat to spill upon the cobblestone. “If you wish to keep your tongue, then you will not sing it again. And you will spread my warning to others who might do the same.”

The man gave the barest of nods, mindful of the blade. “Yes, my prince, of course! I will spread your words far and wide!”

Daemon lowered his sword, then his elbow, which had pinned the singer in place. The man bowed once, twice, even lower, and stumbled over his lute as he backed away, feet jarring several of the coins that had been tossed his way, which he now ignored to stumble further, not daring to turn his back until he was fully out of view.

When Daemon looked behind, he found that the crowd had dispersed entirely, as though fearful of receiving similar treatment for having listened to the song.

If it has made it through the city, it is only a matter of time until it finds its way into the Red Keep. The thought of his sons hearing it themselves, even if they did not entirely understand the uglier parts, made his fists clench. The part about Rhea will hurt them.

Rhaegar especially. She had given his younger son reason enough to doubt her love, he knew from speaking to Ser Perkins on the matter.

Crayne’s inclusion in the song made it clear that word had spread of his bounty, and inferences had been made from that as to the intentions behind the kidnapping attempt. That the singer behind it had chosen the vilest of possibilities, rather than the more obvious interpretation that one of the Free Cities sought dragons, spoke of malice.

I shall have every gold cloak on alert. Any who dare sing it—

“Forbidding a thing only increases its allure,” Laenor said.

Either he had read his thoughts, or Daemon had spoken aloud without realizing. Denial rose in his throat, and he swallowed it, jaw clenching so hard that it ached. Laenor was right. And if the song had made it to River Row, then it had almost certainly found its way to the harbor, and from there—anywhere.

I cannot protect them from anything. Every failure loomed before him, taunting him. Crayne’s continued freedom, wherever he had fled. The warlock’s candle that continued to haunt his sons. The reward offered by Volantis for their capture, unopposed and uncontested by the Crown.

Even the Stepstones remained unconquered, merely the seeds of victory being planted, with the harvest unassured. And the true horror of the song was that if not for the protection offered by Volantis’s reward, he could very easily imagine the Triarchy hatching such a plot to punish him for all that he had done to oppose them.

He did not sheathe Dark Sister, the walk back to the Red Keep a blur of bitter rage and despair, his thirst for violence, for bloodshed, unquenched. The temptation to mount Caraxes and set out for the Stepstones was nearly overwhelming. Let Caraxes rain fire from above. He would join the chaos of the melee, find release in the spray of blood.

Anything was better than yet another day spent on planning and logistics, on useless whispers and fruitless investigations. I am a blade left sheathed for too long.

Laenor departed once they reached the yard, and Daemon hacked at one target, then another, and another, but the destruction only further fueled the fury in his heart, until he felt as though he might choke on it. I am useless. I shall only fail them, as I failed them for so long.

“Daemon.”

That was his brother’s voice. Daemon blinked, finding his sword stuck partway through the top beam of the wooden fencing along the edge of the yard. His hand throbbed from the repeated impact of metal against wood, carried up the blade to the hilt.

There were a dozen knights in the yard, keeping either a respectful or wary distance from his swath of destruction, and two Kingsguard flanking his brother, and yet all Daemon could feel was a vague sense of threat. As though he were surrounded by only the illusion of safety, and it could vanish within an instant, trapping him, trapping his sons—

You cannot protect them.

He released Dark Sister’s hilt, the fire gone even more swiftly than it had built, without even embers to warm him. He felt cold as he looked to the setting sun, then back at his brother.

“Is there not a small council meeting?”

“Laenor fetched me,” Viserys said. He nodded at Ser Harrold, who strained for a few pulls before wrenching Dark Sister free of the fence and handing her to Daemon, who stared at the sword a moment before sheathing her. A hand found his back, resting lightly there. “Daemon, you worry me. What is the matter?”

There was a concern in his voice that Daemon desperately wanted to believe. “Am I one of your problems again?”

His brother heaved a heavy sigh, which seemed answer enough. “I should not have said that before. I am sorry.”

I am sorry, but we cannot risk open conflict with Volantis while we war against the Triarchy. I am sorry, but you must wed, even if you do not wish to. I am sorry, but I do not trust you enough to explain. I am sorry, but your children must remain here, blood to be spent.

“Daemon?”

“I do not want your apology,” he said. The screams he had strangled before had still somehow left his voice raw.

His brother fell silent for a few long seconds, though his hand remained on his back, a subtle pressure between his shoulder blades. “What do you want?”

“I—” So many things all at once that they might as well be nothing. Daemon swallowed. “I want my sons.”

Viserys’s head moved, and Ser Harrold spoke. “Their arms training is finished for the day. They should be back within the holdfast.”

“Come, then.” Viserys’s hand pushed gently, spurring him into a walk. “We shall find them.”

“Are you not needed at the small council meeting?”

“Are you not needed?” Viserys prodded back, only to quickly add as Daemon’s steps faltered, “They shall manage without us.”

Daemon was escorted to his apartments, and the two Kingsguard and the knight standing vigil outside the door were then ordered a few paces back by Viserys, who continued to study him, his small frown only serving to make him appear even wearier.

“Will you not tell me what troubles you?”

Everything. “It is nothing you can help with,” Daemon said. Nothing you would help with.

“Laenor told me about the song,” Viserys said, hands squeezing his shoulders. “I shall have it dealt with.”

Daemon was startled to find that it had almost completely slipped his mind. The embers of his fury earlier flared briefly, but as he reached for their warmth, they faded once more. “Thank you.”

“Would you do something for me in return?”

He should have expected a price. Daemon’s hands flexed. “What is it?”

“Would you stop slipping your household knights when you leave the Red Keep?” Viserys’s frown deepened. “It is not safe for you until the Triarchy is dealt with.”

He does not wish to let you beyond his reach.

Daemon gave a halting nod in response, and Viserys pulled him into an embrace, pressing a kiss to his temple before releasing him, pulling back to arm’s length, gaze roving over him once more, seeking something that he did not seem to find. “Thank you.”

The sound of laughter rose from within his apartments, and the constriction that had found its way to his lungs eased. Jon. He reached for the door, overcome by the need to see them, hold them. “I must—”

“Go on. We can speak later.”

The flutter of apprehension in his chest settled as he pulled the door open to the sight of his sons staring at one another across the room, their hatchlings positioned between them in some unknowable game. All four heads turned to him, and within moments he was swarmed by all four, warmth seeping through the cold at last.

[sheisburiedhere]

The GraveRobber

Andrew graves x reader

Warning: cursing

Chapter 2

Chapter 1

Y/n who is tired of her shitty life not knowing it's about to get a lot more interesting

Y/n who had tried breaking down the door multiple times and been flirting and trading money for food from the guards

Y/n who intelligently hidden her food all over the apartment where your stupid boyfriend Jax left for work one day and never came back

Y/n who called that stupid Jax and been told that he can't come home till the quarantine over. He thinks you didn't hear that feminine giggle next to the phone. Your eyes widen as you slam it down with anger and grind your teeth digging your nails into your thighs.

I̸̡̛̳͌̉͋͐͒̍ ȟ̸̨̯̲̝̳͓͎̭͖͊̄̔̽̓̂̋̇̋̀̕̚͜â̸̙͐͑̌̿͛̽t̵̏͛̃̍́̈̚͜͝ẹ̷͓̺̰̽̍͛̉̐̔͋̓̚͜ ȟ̸̨̯̲̝̳͓͎̭͖͊̄̔̽̓̂̋̇̋̀̕̚͜i̵̢̢̡͚̩̞̥͕̜̻̫̩̐̈͘͜m̶̥͇͈̣̏͑̿͑̃̈͛̕͠, I̸̡̛̳͌̉͋͐͒̍'l̷̢̨̨̫̼͙̞͉̗͉̖̲̖̞̿̉l̷̢̨̨̫̼͙̞͉̗͉̖̲̖̞̿̉ ḟ̴̧̧̗͍͉͔̹͎̻͓̇͊̃̒̄̈̓̉̌̈͝͝i̵̢̢̡͚̩̞̥͕̜̻̫̩̐̈͘͜️ṉ̵͓̬͈̞̥̭̥̇̓̔͋d̴̨̢̤̗̦͚̺̭̤͙̹̃̕ ȟ̸̨̯̲̝̳͓͎̭͖͊̄̔̽̓̂̋̇̋̀̕̚͜i̵̢̢̡͚̩̞̥͕̜̻̫̩̐̈͘͜m̶̥͇͈̣̏͑̿͑̃̈͛̕͠ â̸̙͐͑̌̿͛̽️ṉ̵͓̬͈̞̥̭̥̇̓̔͋d̴̨̢̤̗̦͚̺̭̤͙̹̃̕-

Y/n who turns towards the noise at the balcony and see two emo looking ,hot topic intruders*rolls eyes*

The guy holds a cleaver as he looks at you nervously and the girl looks at you with a strange bitch look

Wait. You know that bitch look , you created that bitch look ,but of course yours is much better.

You stand up and cross your arms and turns your mouth up in disgust and stare her down completely ignoring the guy. And give her your branded bitch look.

How can such a pretty person make such and ugly face , who knows.

" Well are you both just gonna stare at me or you come to get something" you scowl only watching the girl while you both have a bitch face off.

Before the guy can speak the barks out "look here we just came for your food but we can kill you if you don't stand still and behave "

(Who the hell does she feel she is huh) you smile and begin to walk up to your kitchen cabinet as you glance at her about to blow a fuse.

"Are you dense didn't you hear me to stand still?!" She yells stomping here foot before being smacked in the face with a slice of American cheese and shutting up from the shock .

She turns to look at you with eyes that can kill . As you hand her a box filled of food ,could last for a week.

( how did she reach Infront of me so fast...) You turn to the guy not smiling but still feeling threatened by the cleaver as he still looks at the cheese on the girl's face and turn back to you nervously.

"You should put her on a leash," you say smiling at her as you realise that she doesn't like you close to guy as her face darkens .

You turn back to her ,"you look beautiful when you smile so you should keep doing that okay"

You feel the guy's eyes on you with a small smile as you glance back at him raising your eyebrows.(The hell is he looking at?)

"Now get the hell out I have things to do." You see the girl leave with a scowl and begins to walk away thinking she out of sight then skipping happily with the box of food across the wooden board that connects your balconies .Well isn't that cute.

"Thank you" the guy says breaking the silence. " It's no problem all of us are suffering" you say softly. "Not just for that...um I'm Andrew and that was my little sister Ashley" he says looking at you smiling showing his teeth. How adorable.

You both walk out to the balcony as he steps onto their balcony. "I'm Y/n" you say making sure he goes over safely.

"Thank you again Y/n , you don't know how much this means to us"

He waves as he enters his apartment. You walk back into yours and realise for the first time in a long time you smiled but here you are...alone again.

Maybe you meet Ashley and Andrew soon maybe you won't be alone again....

[thatfreshi]

Not if You Collect Them Like Ex-lovers (Astarion x Reader)

Tw - couple arguing

Recommended Song: This Is Me Trying - Taylor Swift

Whenever you and Astarion fight, it gets ugly. Two extremely emotional people, two people who still aren't used to letting their guard down all the time, people with faults.

"I don't understand why it bothers you."

Usually, it starts with a misunderstanding, an attempt at love, a hand reaching out to simply ask a question.

"Because Astarion, it's my house too!"

Full names, no more sweets and doves. Throwing words around like rocks, glass bottles breaking on countertops, shards, shattering.

"Yes, our house, I thought that's what you wanted? Or was I mistaken when you pleaded with me, saying you wanted this forever."

Questions lose answers, no longer searching for love, just words to defend yourself with. When the friend becomes the enemy and your throat closes up with grief, what do you do other than fight back?

"I wanted a house that at least had some semblance of looking like a house, not just your shit everywhere!"

Wounds that run deep, that need to hold onto every little thing he finds, your home decorated with the most meaningless items, things that mean everything to him. To you they're knick-knacks, some of them even garbage, and that hoarder's mentality drives you mad. The argument was so incredibly stupid, easily solved, but it's impossible to be peaceful when you never get time apart.

"Well, why don't I just take my things and leave then?"

And there he goes, escalating when he feels cornered.

"Oh right, and go where Astarion? Go burn to a crisp in the sunlight, or maybe hide in an alleyway somewhere? I'm sure that'll be so much better than living with me!"

Poking the bear, as you do when you're stressed. You know he hates the fact that he's lost the sunlight, cursed to be in a wooden box with blackout curtains.

"I'm sure you'd love that, if I just disappeared right?"

Deflecting, but also wrapping himself in insecurity. It's a test, a trick question, a puzzle.

"At least I'd have some room in this fucking house to do anything without tripping over all your useless 'treasures.'"

From trying to understand to going on the prowl for hatred, you've reached a point of no return.

"Why do you even care Tav, I just like having things! Is that so much to ask? Are they not allowed to mean something to me?"

"Not if you collect them like ex-lovers!"

Astarion opens his mouth to say something else, but trembles. Now you've done it, gone too far. He scoffs, tears leaving his eyes.

"Well then perhaps I should have another."

It's late, the stars dotting the sky like scars from teeth, allowing the vampire to storm out of the house, slamming the door. You begin to cry as well, knowing you shouldn't have said that, knowing you didn't really mean it. You're just frustrated, the stuff scattered everywhere is overwhelming, and you just don't get why it matters.

When Astarion leaves, he knows he only has a couple of hours to cool off, to think things through. It's infuriating at times, being so chained to one place, after getting to explore the world for months on end. He wasn't allowed to have things with Cazador, not anything that was his own. After the nautiloid crash, he started grabbing everything he could get his hands on. Jewelry, pretty fabrics, anything that could possibly mean anything. Now he's stuck in one place again, but a place where he can finally store all those little finds, a nice-feeling rock, a bottle that reminds him of a night stroll the two of you took. It's a comfort in a scary transition, to be allowed to keep something, anything.

While you're thinking of where he's gone, you look around at all the things Astarion has piled up on the coffee table. A couple rolls of thread from the market, ones he hasn't even started to use, a stack of books he'll probably take forever to finally read. You go through these items forever, trying to organize all the little things he's left around the place, filling drawers with memories you didn't realize were important. After clearing out most of the things in the living room, you find a small, poorly crafted ring. It's heavily scratched, but has an inscription on the inside. Your mind floods with the magical feeling of the grove, and Astarion pocketing this ring after showing the young tiefling child a magic trick. Back then, his intentions were just to show the child that your things can get snatched up so easily, but he slowly began to believe it was lucky, just as the kid said. You meditate on the thought, realizing these items, they're all either moments or possibilities. The front door opens.

Somber steps, the sound of his dagger being placed on the nearby table. You turn around and walk towards him, wrapping your arms around each other.

"I'm sorry."

You manage to choke out.

"It's alright darling, I'm being ridiculous."

You shake your head, breaking the embrace.

"No, no you're not. I was going through all of this, all of this stuff, and you're right. It all means something."

"Stupid meanings though. It's all fear Tav, fear I'm going to forget, fear I'm going to lose everything I have."

"That's okay, it's okay to be scared."

You show him the tiefling's ring.

"But we don't have to be scared anymore. We have luck on our side, right?"

He laughs, fiddling with the silly scratched-up band.

"You remember this?"

You nod.

"Of course I remember. I still don't know how you did that trick."

"A magician never tells."

You both laugh, still crying

"Gods, I thought you were so annoying."

"Well apparently I still am if you had to take that heavy of a jab at my past."

You frown.

"I-"

"I know you didn't mean it love, but we can't just say things we don't mean to get a rise out of each other."

He's become better at being the voice of reason, growing, changing.

"It's just so overwhelming sometimes. I know you're new at this whole, living a domestic life thing, but I just want to have a say in our space. That's all."

"I know, I hear you and I respect that. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have made our space my space."

"I'm fine with all your keepsakes, but can we just organize them? Have a space for all your little treasures and such?"

"We do still have that extra room upstairs."

You push him.

"That's supposed to be another guest room!"

"Do we really need that many guest rooms?"

The two of you giggle to yourselves.

"You know if we can't host all our friends at once, they will throw a fit."

"Well, I'll find some way to give you some more space. I never wanted to make you feel suffocated."

You look into each other's eyes for a moment, seeing that spark again, finding that love bubble back up. Saying things you don't mean, meaning things you don't say, it's all so new to both of you.

"I know my love, I know."

You hold each other by the doorway for a while, mumbling about how to make this space work for the both of you, how when you start raising your voices, you need to just step away and rethink it. Learning to love, to truly love, to exist as one, it's such a struggle, but a worthwhile cause. After all, there's no one else you'd rather fight with.

[pseudowho]

Pen-Pals

He was your first boyfriend. You were his first real connection with someone outside the Jujutsu world. And it's not that he intended to catfish you...he really didn't.

Note: THIS IS NOT A "FURRY" STORY. ITS A HEARTWARMING TALE ABOUT THE READER FINDING A PLACE IN JUJUTSU SOCIETY, THROUGH HER PENPAL, PANDA ��

SFW, fluff, a bit of angst.

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You were fifteen, when you got your first boyfriend.

At least-- you saw him that way. He was your penpal, first. Your...oddity had left you lonely. Isolated. Friendships were hard, and functioning like you didn't see monsters on every street corner, every underpass, was even harder.

With numerous psychological assessments before the age of ten, seeing your mother and father in tears outside the Psychiatrist's office...no. It would not do. You told nobody else after that, simply living in your haunted little world, head down, desperate not to be noticed by them.

You soothed yourself to sleep every night, imagining lilac clouds and fields of wildflowers, instead of blackened fingers closing, bone-brittle, round the edges of your wardrobe.

He went by 'Panda'-- a cute pseudonym, and how he had signed off all of his letters, ever since you had matched with him on the Pen Pal Seeker website.

And how you loved him. Despite his dreadful handwriting, his thoughts were sincere, warm without being patronising, funny and abstract in the most oddly conversational way. He poured his heart out to you, and you to him. You yearned to know him better, but delighted in the mystery of a secret lover.

Panda had just a father, one older brother and one older sister. He went to a boarding school. He took hand-to-hand combat as a sport. His best friend was quiet, but tough and kind.

And he saw the monsters too. At first you were doubtful, your pen hesitating on the page. Do I tell him? He'll think I'm a freak. I probably won't even get a letter back...you told yourself all this, as you wrote yourself bare to him. As you posted the letter. As you waited, chewing your nails to stubs, certain you had royally screwed up.

The clatter of the letter box. Your frantic footsteps tumbling down the stairs, shoving your father aside-- "hey kiddo, where's the fire?"-- to reach the stack of post first, seeing your name in his hand--

...and his words. Oh, you loved him so.

You're not alone! I can see them too. Lots of us can at my school. Try not to let them notice you looking...

You kicked backwards onto your bed, the letter pressed to your chest, one arm over your eyes as you kicked your feet in glee, trying not to cry.

It was settled-- you had to know him. You had to meet him.

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Skipping school the next day, you felt like everyone around you on the street knew it. You felt like a criminal, hitching your bag over one shoulder, keeping your gaze downwards as you spent your savings on a train ticket to Tokyo.

The train journey was full of blushing imagination, running through how you would greet him, again and again and again, each time stupider and more embarrassing than the last.

Hey, Panda, it's me. Hi Panda...how've you been? Boo! Ahaha just kidding...unless--

As your footsteps carried you along your phone map, glancing up and down to see yourself wander into the tree-shade hush of outer-Tokyo...your coming here became a worse and worse idea.

What were you thinking? Panda was going to think you were absolutely mad! You didn't even know his real name. He might have been some sixty year old creep just pretending to be a kid like you. What if he wrote to loads of girls? What if he gave you one look and was embarrassed by what he had been writing to? What--

You stood at huge wooden gates, encircling a beautiful stack of traditional Japanese buildings, winding away up the rolling hills. Your finger hovered over a buzzer. You tasted copper as your teeth bit into your lip, bubbling over with internal conflict, before stabbing down on the buzzer, greeted by a shrill ringing.

A voice-- "Name, please?"

You stuttered, announcing your name. Silence on the other line. You elaborated.

"Panda, uhm-- I'm here to see Panda. About...about the monsters. I'm...I'm a friend."

Silence...clickcrrreeeeeeeak.

You stepped back, gripping your bag like a shield as the gates heaved slowly open. Hesitant footsteps crunched over gravel, carrying you in. You had not thought about the particulars of actually finding Panda, and you gazed around you, stumped.

You stood to attention, seeing two figures move down the twisting stepped path ahead of you. A girl, stern, bespectacled. A boy, tired-looking but friendly, with big dark eyes and a white funnel-neck collar. They saw you, and shared a glance, before stepping over. The gates swung closed behind you.

The girl didn't waste any time; "How do you know Panda?" she demanded, one hand on her hip, eyes narrow through her glasses. You gulped, feeling dizzy from the volume of strange power rolling off the boy beside her.

"I...we...he writes to me. To each other. We write to each other." The boy's eyebrows quirked up in surprise. He looked to the girl with a light smile. The girl scowled.

"I didn't know Panda could write," she grumbled. You blinked, once, confused and beginning to feel nauseous, the boy's presence alone crushing in on you--

"Hey..." the boy started gently, stepping closer to you, "...maybe-- maybe you should go? Panda's not really good to see anyone right now-- oh hey-- Maki--"

You had lurched sideways, retching on the gravel as the boy held you gently round the waist. Maki looked unaffected, continuing to frown down at you as you sniffled, hiccuping, mortified, of course he didn't want to see you--

"I'm sorry you're right, I should just-- I'll go I just--" you babbled, standing and stepping back, the boy letting go of you hesitantly, warm brown eyes cut with genuine concern, "--he just-- he said he could see the monsters like me and I--"

The boy and the girl both paused, mouths dropping open in...realisation? The girl, Maki, slapped the boy on the shoulder with the back of her hand, and he crumpled like wet tissue; "Dull it down Yuuta...you're making her sick."

"I think...you should come with us, and uhm....meet Panda," Yuuta offered, rubbing his shoulder and smiling softly at you. You sniffled, glancing between them both.

"...really?" Your heart clenched, hopeful, excited.

Walking between them, up the twisting path, you did not yet realise you had found your new home.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

"How much do you...know about Panda?" Maki asked, seated opposite you in a dusty wood-panelled classroom.

"Oh, uhm...he goes to this school. He has an older brother, an older sister, he practices martial arts..." you continued to reel off your relationship with him, enclyclopedic. At each point, Maki seemed to be waiting for something that never came. Her face was set in a grim line.

"Panda's not like the rest of us," she stated, blunt, "And I don't know if you'll--"

The door slid open. Yuuta poked his head in, catching your eye with an uncertain smile.

"Panda's here. He can't wait to meet you." You stood up, smoothing your skirt, twisting your hands together, straightening your hair. Maki and Yuuta glanced apprehensively to each other.

"Just, uh...just don't scream, yeah?" You frowned at Yuuta, laughing;

"Why would I scre--"

As a full-grown Panda walked into the classroom, shrieks rang out of the windows across Jujutsu High.

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Sat by the little brook, you sobbed your heart out, your face being gently dried by an enormous black and white paw, the other round your shoulder, holding you against--

"-- a literal Panda! You're a fucking Panda!"

Maki shook her head disapprovingly behind you both, glaring at Panda; "I can't believe you pretended to be human--"

Panda gaped, appalled, "I never told her I was human!" Yuuta laughed into his hand, struck by the bizarreness of the situation.

"Of course she'd assume you're human--"

"-- I don't like to assume what you humans think, but anyway, she's smart and kind and I knew she wouldn't judge-- stop laughing, Okkotsu-- can you guys just leave us alone? For a minute?"

You laughed despite yourself, patting Panda's enormous paw, engulfed in his behemoth furry embrace. Yuuta stood, gently dragging a still protesting Maki away. Silence fell. The river whispered down the stones. The sunlight softened in the rustling leaves.

"...I'm sorry. I didn't mean to mislead you. I just...liked talking to you. I've never had someone who-- who didn't know what I-- ...I'm sorry," Panda finished, weakly. You blinked back tears, wiping your nose.

"...it's okay. I'm the same. And you're the best person I-- my favourite person-- you've helped me with so much and I love you--" Panda's ears perked, and he looked down at you with joy.

He continued, gruff with emotion; "It's the right thing that you're here, though. You need to learn more about these monsters. Maybe you can even stay."

It was your turn to look at Panda with joy.

You sat in companionable silence, delighting in the company of a new friend. You hesitated again, your cheeks scattered with pink.

"Can you uhm...can I still say you were my first boyfriend, though?"

Oh. If pandas could blush.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Many years later, tied to a chair in the dank Curse users' hideout you had infiltrated, you smirked to see the men around you step backwards from the door in horror.

Beyond the door, an incoherent din of bestial roars, men screaming, furniture smashing. One of the men beside you squeaked in terror, clapping a hand over his mouth before grabbing you roughly by the face.

"What is-- what is that thing? Out there?" He demanded, shaking with terror. You laughed, your face squished in his hand.

"That's my ex-boyfriend. He's called Panda, he's 6 foot 7, and he's here to fuck you up."

The door flew off its hinges with a metallic bang, and the men around you scrabbled to run for their lives. A hulking mass of black and white filled the doorway.

"What are you guys doin' to my girl, huh?"

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I don't know where this came from, but I love Panda 🐼

[helloheyhihowdyheya]

Rose Thorn Blues | pt. 5 (final)

Peter Parker x fem!reader

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Masterlist

Summary: Spider-Man saved everyone he could. But this time, you have to save him — and yourself.

Word count: ~10.4k

Warnings: Enemies to lovers!! (We're finally to the lovers part <3) Canon-level violence. Swearing, blood, injuries. Angst. Fluff and more fluff!! Love confessions!!! And smooching ;)

A/n: Today's my birthday, so here's a little birthday present to all of you :) Thank you all for your patience with this story. It's the longest one I've written, and I'm grateful for everyone that's read it. Your comments mean the world.

I'd be happy to write an epilogue or little snippets of their lives during or after this story if anyone would be interested. Thank you, and I hope you enjoy <3

Pain. Unrelenting pain settling deep into your body was the first thing you noticed. Your closed eyes squeezed shut harder as the back of your head pounded, a shaky exhale leaving your cracked lips. You could feel dried tears stuck along the planes of your cheeks.

When you tried moving your arms, you found you couldn’t — not with them bound behind you to the chair you sat in, and not with the deep ache stretching from your shoulders down to your wrists. The skin there felt rubbed nearly raw by rope holding them together. Even your chest and ankles were tied to the chair. 

Despite the ache in your ribs, you forced yourself to take long, deep breaths. Each one shook through you. Blinking slowly, you let your blurry vision adjust. The bright fluorescents were now dimmer than before, only half of them on. You shivered slightly, goosebumps raising across your skin in the cool temperature of the warehouse. 

Forms of people here and there began to come into focus in front of you. They seemed to be packing things into large boxes, the same wooden ones you’d seen before. And as you took in the tall windows and many shelves, you saw that you were in a shadowy corner of this godforsaken warehouse.

You could’ve screamed if your throat wasn’t so dry and your head wasn’t swimming. Your jaw ached as you clenched your teeth together over and over again. Panicked, uncontrolled thoughts flew through your hazy awareness. No matter how hard you tried to swallow them back, you couldn’t ignore the worry festering in your stomach — one uneasy idea decomposing into another.

Where was Peter?

A thin breath punched from your lungs as you remembered the hurt in his voice over the phone. He’d never allowed you to see him like that before, but still, you could picture his face twisting and the blood staining his suit dark. The image floated on the edges of your vision as you scanned the people moving throughout the warehouse.

Somehow, no guard stood watch over you. If what Will had said before about his horrible suit being missing, his workers must have been scouring the city — stretching his people thin and unable to be everywhere all at once.

With a possible window of opportunity open and beckoning you to take, you shifted your wrists, testing out the rope around them. Wiggling your arms made the binding a tiny bit looser. Each movement stretched them out but brought burning pain with it. It wouldn’t get you anywhere but tired and too hurt to function.

Like Peter, desperate and hurt. Who tried to keep you from walking into your demise… using secrets and lies. You clenched your teeth, hoping the pressure of it could shove away these half-feelings twisting and knotting around themselves.

So, you looked around, careful not to turn your head too abruptly in case any workers looked over. Though, even from afar, all of them looked terrified to do anything but hastily pack. Orders from Will himself, you were sure of it.

From the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of a jagged metal beam broken and sticking out from a beat-up shelf. It looked dull, but it came to a point. It’d have to do.

As silently as you could, you used your feet to inch the chair backward — timing each push with the sound of people shouting at one another or loudly loading up a crate. Your ears rang and your rapid heartbeat dulled your focus, distracting you with each intense spike of your nerves firing off.

Over several minutes, you positioned your bound hands to the piece of metal shelving and began to rub the rope across it. You paused at each lull, each possible moment that you might be caught. It gave you temporary relief from the strain pulling in your shoulders as you continued sawing away at the rope.

Sweat beaded across your skin as time passed — how long exactly, you weren’t sure. But eventually, the strands turned thinner. They felt as tight and ready to snap as your resolve. But when the rope loosened, becoming big enough for your hands to wiggle out, it instead filled your body with quenching relief.

The rope had barely pooled along the concrete floor before you began working on the binding stretching across your chest to hold your torso to the chair. It was tedious and forced your aching arms in horrible positions, but you pulled and pulled at the binding, squirming around to even gain an inch of room.

It kept catching on the bunched-up fabric of your clothes, but it moved. So, so slowly, it moved. It was an effort to keep your breaths silent when you wanted nothing more than to just shout for anyone to come help you. But Peter wasn’t here to help, so you sunk your teeth into your lip and kept quiet as the rope loosened.

Pushing your elbows out, you slipped the rope over your head. You allowed yourself only one unrestrained inhale before bending at the waist and working on the knot tying your ankles to the chair. Your fingers worked quickly, your eyes constantly trained on the workers as you moved. But the sight of that rope falling from your body made you blink away stinging tears.

Your best bet would likely be looking for a back exit and hoping you could sneak by anyone there — or fight your way out if it came to that. On unsteady legs, you raised yourself up, ignoring the wave of sharp pain pulsing at the back of your head and down your spine.

But before you could even take a step, get a real breath of freedom in your lungs, a sharp blade appeared at your neck.

“Going somewhere, sunshine?”

Within an instant, William Beaumont appeared next to you, and had he not held a tight grip to your upper arm, you might have collapsed. Though the blade pressed against you, your body instinctually writhed to get away from him. But even in the dim lighting, you saw the darkness that clung to him, the stillness in his eyes, the heavy weight he held. This wasn’t the Will you met before.

“Or Rose, is it?” he asked, his voice cold and calculated.

He pulled you forward and yanked your arms behind you. Your throat felt tight, your chest ready to rip open as you felt a zip tie tighten around your wrists — the plastic rubbing right where the rope had been just minutes ago. It had been too easy. Did he give you that hope on purpose? Just a lion toying with its food? A wretched feeling of fear shot through you at the thought. 

Will shoved you back in the chair, a labored grunt shooting out of your lungs and a dizziness hitting you. Once he was sure you weren’t going to get up again, he took a step back, careful to keep the long blade pointed at your throat. 

You dully registered a piece of wood rolling to your feet as Will aimlessly paced before you, kicking scattered debris. Sweat coated his skin, his hair damp against his forehead. For a minute, he just wordlessly walked back and forth, his eyes staring unfocused toward the ground. But you couldn’t look at his face for long, not with the sunken shadows settling into each curve of his expression. He almost looked sickly. Your gaze instead dropped to the handgun tucked into the back of his waistband; then you looked to the sharp piece of metal in his hand, recognizing it as one of the wrecked pieces from the Green Goblin’s glider.

When he paused, your breaths stopping too, he turned to stare at you. “Where’s my suit?” he asked, simply and without room for negotiation.

Despite the nearly deafening roaring of your heartbeat, you held his stare and willed your voice to come out steady. “Where’s your father?”

He raised an eyebrow at you, and you wondered how you hadn’t ever seen the similarities between those two before — the eerie air around them. 

“Ellis is a bit busy at the moment. Why? Want to snoop around his mansion some more?” He tilted his head, pursing his lips just slightly. The look brought an anger next to your fear — anger and frustration that they could do good with what they had and keep their promises, but they were just adding more filth to the city.

He came closer then, squatting down so he was nearly eye level with you. You could barely stand to look at him this close, but you did your best not to flinch away. It was just another character you had to play. 

Almost unnoticeable, you saw him wince in pain as he lowered. Watching him, you swallowed the fear trickling down your spine and asked, “Feeling sore?” At his unimpressed look, you merely squared your shoulders, raising your chin.

A breathy half-laugh escaped his lips. He stared down at his hand as he flexed it.  “Jus’ some growing pains…” He shrugged. “ No change comes without a cost.”

“And is the cost worth all this?” you asked, your eyes motioning to the wreckage of the warehouse behind him.

“I’m just living up to the Beaumont family name. We’re cutting through endless miles of red tape with a snap of my fingers. I think you know the answer.”

“Your fingers?” you questioned. “Ellis is making you do all the dirty work?”

Will just rolled his eyes, his grip growing tighter on the blade. Letting out a sharp breath, he stood up, his body wavering just barely as he did so. Still, you went rigid as he towered over you. “Where’s the suit?”

You shook your head, trying to stay calm. But your resolve, this mask, pulled in all directions. “You said you wanted to educate people. What kind of change can be worth whatever you have planned? Worth a super suit and bodily experiments?” You remembered the way he’d bent the shelving’s metal like it was nothing.

“I prefer the term enhancements actually. Because they have made me better. Made it easier to ‘negotiate’ with clients. To educate the city on who really controls things around here.” He stared down at you, letting his words sink in.

Your tone rose, a tightness taking hold of your throat. “And who controls it? It’s certainly not you if your daddy’s bossing you around.” Despite the cold anger flaring behind his features, you continued. “Who says he won’t just keep you as his little lackey to do his bidding forever?”

His jaw twitched, his hand gripping the blade harder. You fought the terrified waves of nausea sitting in your stomach as he said, “Shut your mouth. You know nothing about the empire he’s planned for me.”

Your voice lowered with venom pooling around your tongue, one eyebrow raising. “Oh, and he’d never lie for his own personal gain, right? Even at the harm of others?”

“Where’s the suit?” he gritted out.

“I don’t know.”

You jolted backward as he slammed the metal blade against one of the shelves. The echoing clang of the hit made you curl into yourself, the blood draining from your heart.

His hand raised high, clenched above his head, before it slowly unfurled. He pressed his fingers into his temples. “I’m not in the fucking mood for this.” Punctuating each word with a step closer, he said, “Where. Is. The. Suit?” 

A pulsing vein appeared along his neck, his breathing coming harder. Your hope of getting out of here dwindled with each second he got closer to losing it. 

Trying to keep your voice calm, you said, “Will, I swear I don’t know.”

He charged toward you then, gripping your chin in his hand despite the yelp you let out. “You’ve come to this warehouse before. You’ve been in our house. You stole blueprints. And you think I’m going to believe you?”

You let out a shaky exhale, muscles twitching and screaming at you to get away from him. “I never broke in here. I wouldn’t be able to take all those boxes of the suit by myself, not without being seen. I don’t know where it is.”

His gaze considered you, roaming across your face like he was listing all the ways to torture the information from you. “Then you had help. Maybe that little ‘husband’ of yours knows — he might talk more than you when we find him.” He paused, his hold on you growing a little tighter, making you wince. “And that spider will talk when we string him up and force it out of him.”

Your expression dropped, your eyebrows tightening together. So they didn’t know Peter was Spider-Man, at least not yet. And if you could get out of here alone, it could stay that wa-

A flash of red flew past the windows near the warehouse’s ceiling. Any sense of calm, no matter how forced, dissipated into uncatchable smoke. No, he couldn’t be here. He couldn’t bring himself right into the waiting mouth of the beast that was hunting him. Silently, you pulled at the zip tie holding your wrists. 

“Speaking of cutting through red tape…” Will muttered as a thud on top of the roof had his gaze shooting upward. Silence covered the entire building — all of the workers immediately stopped their movements. 

You could barely slump forward when Will let go of your chin before he brought the blade back to your neck, his body standing behind you. His words echoed as he called out, “Come on out, Spider-Man! I promise we’ll let her go…”

Your eyes squeezed shut as the pain in the back of your head pounded harder, tears threatening to pool on your eyelashes. You whispered, “And then what? Where does this end, Will?” 

A jagged smile was evident in his words. “Who says the fun ever has to end?” His hands forced your head to turn, your gaze pointed toward the warehouse entrance. “Isn’t that right, father?” Will asked loudly, calling to the man walking toward you both with a gun at the ready.

The sight dropped a deadening weight into your stomach. Ellis looked wild, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. His usual well-kempt look was forgotten, his suit ragged and hair free from its slicked-back style. More guards continued to enter the warehouse after him, and you couldn’t stop your entire body from shaking.

“Or maybe the fun’s just beginning,” Will said into the curve of your ear. It made you stretch to get away from him, but that only pushed your neck further into the blade — pain prickling along your skin.

You revolted against the dread, the horrific realization, that you may watch Peter die here — while he was trying to save you. It took everything in you to not let it incapacitate your ability to think or even function.

Ellis directed the guards this way and that. You watched with unfocused attention as he followed the large group up toward the roof. Normally, you would say he was sending them to their demise with Spider-Man up there. But an injured, desperate Spider-Man? That struck icy fear into your veins.

And you’d never known Spider-Man to have a noisy approach — careless enough to make noise and draw the enemy’s attention to himself. He’d have to play it smart, which became evident a few minutes later when Will yelled to one of his guards… and got no response. Peter was picking them off one by one in here while they searched for him outside.

Will’s free hand gripped tightly to your shoulder, his body continuously moving in small twitches. You could feel how on edge he was, and you wondered just how dangerous this family could be. Full power over the city, and all they needed now was to remove the one man stopping them.

You fought to keep your breathing even, your mind clear, so you could stay calm. And it worked to ground you just as a web shot from the sky. At blinding speed, it hit Will’s arm, sending the blade flying away from you. It clattered across the floor, the sound the sweetest thing you’d ever heard. Before he could fully realize what had happened, you lifted your foot and brought it down against his knee using every bit of strength you had.

By the time he’d crumpled to the floor, you’d run the other way. His scream froze your heart, but you knew he wouldn’t be down long with whatever experiments were coursing through him. Weaving between shelves with your hands still bound behind you, you tried to find somewhere safe — maybe the back entrance you’d planned to go to before.

But there were sure to be more guards outside now, and you couldn’t get far with your hands tied together. Your steps slowed, trying to become silent as you looked around for something sharp. Among the debris were ammo, rope, chemicals… but nothing to cut the zip tie. 

Will’s words sounded far enough away, but that didn’t stop your head from whipping in his direction as he yelled, “You’ll fucking regret that!” Without so much as a breath, you took small steps backward away from the threat.

You only got a few feet when a gloved hand wrapped around your mouth. Before you could even scream, you were lifted into the air. The warehouse passed in a blur, but relief broke through as you felt summer night air hit your skin — as you recognized the sounds of the man swinging you both a few blocks away.

The two of you landed in a different alley, this one empty and finally safe. A second later, you felt the snap of the zip tie, and your wrists came free.

“Thought you might need a han-”

He only spoke those few words before you turned around to lunge into his arms. A quiet grunt shot out of him as you hugged him until your arms shook. You sniffled back tears budding up, your fingers clenching tight onto his suit. You breathed in him.

“Peter,” you whispered against him.

“Uh… I’m not sure who that is. The name’s Spide-”

“Shut up,” you interrupted, shaking your head as you pressed in closer to him. You could have sobbed when his arms wrapped around you too. To have him here, real, and breathing felt like the aching quiet after waking up from an unending nightmare, like the first rays of morning sunlight peeking above the horizon.

But the memory of when the two of you last spoke washed over your senses in an unrelenting tidal wave. You pulled back, your hold on him tightening as you looked at him. Your breath fizzed away like bubbling remnants of the crashed wave.

Blood splattered across his suit, broken up by dirt and rips along his body. His chest rapidly rose and fell, tired in a way you’d never seen the superhero. He’d pulled his arms from you— one of his hands rested against the building, using it to hold his weight. His other hand wrapped around his left side where blood-coated webs held together what looked to be a bullet wound. But what stole the breath from your lungs, what grabbed you and forced you to come to terms with all that’d happened, was his face. 

A jagged tear in his mask stretched from his cheek to his forehead, leaving one of his bloodshot eyes exposed. The skin around it looked marred with cuts and aching bruises. At the top of the rip, pieces of his shaggy hair stuck to his forehead. He was barely recognizable. Your bottom lip trembled, no matter how hard you tried to stop it. But before you could open your mouth, Peter brought you back in against him, hugging you tight. He whispered, “Thank God you’re okay.”

Pressing your hands against his chest, you created a little bit of space despite how your body protested. “Peter… are you okay?”

His exposed eye traced across your face, the soft brown looking paler than usual. “I’m fine. I got the suit out — and hidden. That’s what matters.”

You gave him an exhausted look because that was not all that mattered, not as he stood there looking like that, but you didn’t argue further. He was here. And stubborn.

So you just allowed yourself to do what you hadn’t done before the fundraiser. Raising your hand, you paused for a brief moment before gingerly fixing his hair. You tucked the strands back under the mask before swiping a thumb across his forehead. 

His hand came up to grab your wrist, lowering it from his hair but not letting go of you.

“How are you doing?” he asked. His fingers were gentle against the marks on your wrist.

You blinked against the throbbing in your head but nodded, breathing out, “Uh… yeah. I’ll be okay.”

And too many other things to say passed your mind, some you wanted to tell him and others you couldn’t. With a hoarse voice and downcast eyes, you settled on, “You came.” 

You hoped he heard all you meant underneath those two words.

And you didn’t have time to register his answer — “of course” — as he moved his grip from your wrist down to your hand. He squeezed once then let it return to your side.

“Okay, I need to head back,” he said, raising his arm to shoot a web back in the direction of the warehouse, “please head to the hospital, and stay safe. I’d bring you there myself, but–” He gestured to his injured side, his face wincing in pain.

Instantly, your face twisted, a dizziness coming over you as any relief you had shattered to the ground. “You’re not going back in there. Not like this,” you nearly pleaded, your words coming out faster. “You’ve done enough. Call- call the police, and let them handle it.”

He shook his head. “I already called them. But with Will’s powers, it’ll be a massacre. I’ve got to go.” He said it with such certainty, with no room for argument. He tried to step past you, his gaze stoically not meeting yours. 

“Then I’m coming too.” You stepped to the side with him. You hurriedly explained, “Something’s not right with Will, like his body is struggling with whatever’s coursing through him. So I think if we-”

“What? No. I mean, yes,” he told you. “Will is using DNA from supervillians, and I think his body’s rejecting it. But no, you’re not coming with me.”

“Could we somehow increase his symptoms then, or speed them up?” Your palms came up to rest against his chest. His heartbeat pounded rapidly beneath your touch.

“I mean, probably. If we incubated it with heat or lights maybe, but…” He cocked his head. “Stop talking like we’re doing this together. We’re not.”

Turning your chin up at him, you argued, “Well the plan where you get yourself killed sucks.”

“Well I happen to like the plan where you get killed a lot less, so you’re staying,” he said, raising an arm to shoot out a web again. He held stern, but you heard the exhaustion coating his words, how tired he really was. 

Spider-Man always had a plan, Peter always knew what to do. And now it seemed his only plan was to stop Will at all costs — even at the cost of his own life. You shoved away the emotion that thought brought bubbling up your throat.

You clenched your hands into fists, refusing to let him go so easily. “Peter, you’re not leaving me in the dark anymore. The secrets and hiding have to stop here.”

You watched his eyebrow sink into a frown, his voice becoming more serious than you’d ever heard. “Secrets and hiding? Yeah, I have to keep my identity hidden, but don’t you get why I did all of this?” He asked as if it was the most obvious question. His hands gestured out to the side as he took a step back — your own hands falling away from him.

He turned his head away from you, and you could only watch his jaw clench and unclench with each passing second. The silence rang in your ears, until he breathed out, “It was to keep you safe. ‘Cause all this? It does no good if… if you’re gone.”

You held your breath, feeling your heart beating wildly throughout you. Heat crawled up your body at his words. Quietly, you asked, “What does me being gone have to do with stopping Beaumont?”

Shaking his head, Peter breathed out the ghost of a laugh. In an instant, he stepped so closely that it nearly gave you whiplash. Slowly, the tips of his fingers slipped under his mask to pull it above his mouth. He shifted even closer, his lips merely an inch from yours as his hands cupped your jaw. His body overtook all of your senses. He whispered, “Christ, are you this dense on purpose?” 

With that, his lips pressed against yours, your eyes fluttering shut on instinct. At first, you didn’t move at all — afraid that it would break whatever moment you somehow found yourself in. Thoughts and emotions yelled for your attention, for you to analyze what was happening, but none were quite as loud as the feeling of his body melding against yours. That familiar warmth of him enveloped you, and all you could do was melt with him.

It wasn’t like the hurried kissing at the fundraiser, all teeth and tongue and newness. This almost felt familiar, as if you could come home to this every day. Your hands snaked up, holding onto his shoulders as he dulled your senses into a fuzziness. You felt your mind nearly go blank — but not completely.

With waning will power, you pulled away, trying not to relish in the soft noise that escaped his throat as you did so. You both caught your breath — the yearning exhales mingling in the small space between you. And with the way his hands still held onto you, now dropped down along your body to find a home on your hips, you knew there was no way he’d let you go with him.

“I… you, uh, need to get back” you began with a long, heavy breath. Swiping your tongue across your bottom lip, you took a resistant step backward. He kept one hand on yours as you moved. “Just, Peter, please be safe.”

He slowly nodded, and you watched every movement as he grabbed his mask and brought it back down. His thumb rubbed along your skin. “Yeah, yeah. Of course. And after…”

“After?” you asked, smiling at him.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “After. Let me take you out.”

“After,” you promised. You swallowed, wrapping a hand around his forearm and squeezing once. But before he could move away, you said, “Wait! Do you have anything I could use? To defend myself, I mean. I’d just feel safer — in case I happen to run into their guards on my way to the hospital.” You offered a closed mouth smile, one that told him not to worry too much about you.

“Uh, yeah…” he said, patting along his suit and up to his wrists. Removing part of his left webshooter, he set a small metal piece into your palm. You thought it looked almost like a flash drive as he curved your fingers over it.

“It’s not ideal, but it’s the best I have right now. It helps control my electric webs, so you can use this part as a sort of taser if someone comes at you,” he explained, waiting until you nodded before pulling you into a hug. It crushed your body, feeling like a hug you’d give someone you might not see for a long time. Or ever again.

So, you whispered, “Good luck,” and watched as he stepped away and swung away slowly. One of his hands still held tight to his side.

You waited there for a minute, bringing a thumb up to your lips. You felt how they still tingled and how they curved into a smile. But as soon as you were sure Peter had made it back to the warehouse already, you began making your way there with quick steps.

Maybe you were in over your head. Peter would probably call you stupid or reckless. But if he couldn’t handle if something happened to you, then he’d have to understand why you weren’t leaving him to go in there alone.

So you found yourself marching back to the place you never hoped to return to. Intense pounding went through your head with each step. Your palm felt slick with sweat, but you held tight onto the makeshift taser until your knuckles began to ache.

You were glad the warehouse was so secluded — hopefully no passerbyers would get caught in the fray. Or hear the commotion coming from inside. The muffled noise came from the far side of the building, near the front, so you hugged the opposite side of the alley as you made your way to the back. You guessed that they all concentrated on where Peter must have made an appearance, which only left one guard standing at the door.

Eyes flicking to the ground, you caught a glimpse of rock sitting in the cracks of the alleyway. Silently picking it up and pressing yourself into the shadows, you took a steadying breath that did little to calm your nerves in the midst of this insane idea. Still, your shaky arm reeled back to throw the rock up and over the guard, making it land on the other side of him.

As soon as he turned away from you, gun trained on the strange noise, you stepped from the dark and crept toward him. You gave yourself no time to second guess yourself before coming up behind him. Your internal monologue repeated, Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god as you raised the taser.

But as you went to press the taser into the guard, he turned back around in shock — throwing his elbow into your cheek in the process. A silent groan sat in your throat as your mouth hung open, a loud ringing going through your head. Pain bloomed outward from your face, and it took a moment to push past your swimming vision. Using all your strength, you lunged at him again and shoved the taser into the flesh of his neck.

In an instant, his body began convulsing. You did your best to try and let his weight down gently, but he just slid to the ground alongside you, unconscious and still twitching. Pushing him off, you sat on your knees and tried to catch your breath. You let the pain slowly dull with each passing second.

As you sat there, a glimpse of white against his dark uniform caught your eye — an ID badge hanging off his hip. It worked perfectly against the card reader at the back door, unlocking with a soft click for you to slip through. And there you were again, stood in the mouth of the beast once again.

In the back hallway away from the open floor, you could hear crashing and yelling coming from across the building. You only made it a few feet before footsteps sounded from the end of the hallway. Deep voices echoed off the concrete walls, each word louder than the next. You didn’t move or breathe until eventually, finally, they began to grow quieter.

From where you stood, heart still in your throat, you could tell the warehouse lights were still dimmed. So you searched along the walls, ears always listening for anyone coming back. You opened up the door after finding a circuit breaker, tracing a finger down the length of it. None of the switches were labeled, so after a moment of consideration, you flipped them all on — washing the building in bright fluorescents.

And just a few feet down the hall sat the thermostat. It was set to 65 degrees, but your hand quickly turned the dial up to the 89 degree mark. Within a few seconds, you heard the heater turn on and rumble through the vents. 

You nodded, hopeful that this could begin weakening Will enough for Peter to take him out. While bleeding and injured. While dozens of guards also tried to kill him. How could you let him come back here? How could he come back here and make you come back here to help his ass?

You began to turn around to go find him when a heavy hand landed on your shoulder.

“Freeze-”

A gasp caught in your throat as you whipped around out of instinct and fear, immediately shoving the makeshift taser at the woman. It connected with the bottom of her jaw. With wide eyes, you watched as her body shook and fell to the ground just like the other guard. Your hand came up to cover your mouth while you stared. You didn’t think you would ever get used to that.

Slowly, you backed away down the hall. You did manage to grab her gun and hide it on a shelf when you made your way out there — rather than take it and risk shooting yourself or Peter, even if he did have superpowers.

Superpowers that you almost began to resent as you stepped into the open area of the warehouse — and the man himself immediately dropped down in front of you. You placed your hand over your mouth and swallowed the yelp that threatened to escape. Instead, you watched Peter as he guided the both of you behind a shelf. 

His chest rose and fell much too quickly, his stance wavering and unsteady. Unfortunately, that didn’t seem to affect his attitude though, as he came closer and angrily whispered, “What the hell are you doing here? I can’t believe you did this.”

You gave him a soft, disbelieving look, a closed-lipped smile on your face. “Yes, you can.”

He brought his fingers up to pinch the bridge of his nose. A long sigh left his mouth. “Alright,” he said, “I can believe it. But you need to leave now.” He tried weakly pushing you toward the back door again.

You didn’t budge. “Oh, okay. Yeah, now that I’ve snuck in to help — by electrocuting two guards into unconsciousness, by the way — I’ll just go on my merry way,” you whispered back, twisting your face into a mocking expression. “How about you shut up and just let me help?”

“That’s why you asked for the weapon?” He quietly groaned before looking at you again, his head cocking. “Two guards? That’s not bad.”

“Thank you. Now, I’ve turned up the heat and lights. So let’s go.”

For a moment, he considered you. His eye covered by the mask looked expressionless, distant. But his exposed eye made you pause — his gaze feeling resigned, desperate in a way that made your heart twist. You didn’t want to imagine the other compromises or sacrifices Spider-Man has had to make over the years. And you didn’t have time to. So you swallowed those thoughts and simply grabbed his hand, entwining your fingers with his to pull him farther into the warehouse.

As you slowly moved down the aisles, you whispered, “Give me one of your web shooters.”

You already knew his answer from the blank stare he shot sideways at you. “I’m not giving you one of my web shooters. I need them.” Part of his words told you he really did need them to get you both through this. The other part said he didn’t trust you to not accidentally shoot him with his own webs.

“Well don’t you have an extra one or something?” you shot back.

“Do you see this suit? Where could I even keep an extra web shooter on me?” he quietly asked, his free hand raising outstretched and exasperated.

You let your eyes trail across the suit per his suggestion — until Peter said, “Okay, that’s enough ogling.” And even for the briefest of moments, it felt good to smile with him. 

But at another crash several aisles down, he stiffened. You felt his rapid heartbeat pulse against your skin as he held up a hand. “I’ll be right back,” he promised.

You tried to squeeze his hand, to give him some sort of mention to be careful or to not get himself killed out there, but his fingers slipped through yours as he instantly swung away. Your palm radiated leftover warmth as you hid, thinking through the plan. Hopefully, the two of you wouldn’t have to wait long for Will to show symptoms, which would just leave many guards and Ellis. Peter seemed confident that they couldn’t fight their way out of this.

But under the commotion of guards around the warehouse, yelling and fighting coming from seemingly everywhere, you didn’t hear the heavy footsteps until they were too close. Whipping around, you saw Ellis appear at the end of the aisle, his chest rising and falling in heavy breaths. He raised his gun, aiming it right at you as he said, “Found you now.” His voice sounded colder, void of any of the charm he had when speaking to the public.

Instinctively, you backed away from him — from the man that made cold dread creep through your body and steal the breath from your lungs — but your steps stuttered when a web came from the ceiling and yanked the gun from Ellis’ grip. It flew upward, but you didn’t wait to see Ellis’ reaction before silently thanking Peter and sprinting the other way.

Only to be met with Will standing on the other side of the long aisle. 

His twisted smile and disheveled hair falling into his face fueled the icy weight dropping into your gut. His bloody fingers tightened around the end of the blade he held in one hand. The other gripped a pistol.

You turned to look back at Ellis to see him fighting against more webs. As Will approached with heavy steps, his arm shaking as he aimed his gun at you, you forced your body to move.

Without thinking, you ducked and crawled past boxes sitting on the large shelf and emerged into the next aisle. You couldn’t think about the thudding sounds of bullets hitting metal around you.

You knew he’d be on you soon, his mutated powers making him too powerful. So you crawled across to the next aisle, pushing aside scattered equipment before throwing yourself through that shelf too. You went through a few more aisles and shelves to create at least a little distance. In the last shelf you passed, you hid yourself between the boxes. You stilled just a second before you heard him enter the aisle.

Clamping a hand over your mouth, you squeezed your eyes shut as his footsteps grew louder with each passing second. Your other hand began to ache from gripping the taser between your fingers.

“Run all you like. It won’t change how this all ends,” Will seethed, his voice becoming closer to you. A raggedness filled his words, and you hoped that meant the plan was working.

Still, Peter’s name repeated over and over in your mind, a silent prayer for him to come help. But you could hear more guards approaching, each one feeling like an extra shovel digging your graves.

The guards seemed to be coming to find the commotion, but from the sounds, it seemed like Peter was holding them off. You could only imagine the exhaustion and pain riddling his body as he never stopped fighting.

And you hoped he wouldn’t stop as a shaking, powerful hand wrapped itself around your arm and yanked you from the shelf. No sound could escape your mouth — every inch of it went dry in the face of Will’s bloodshot eyes. 

One hand reached to claw at his grip while the other brought the taser up to his neck. But he knocked it away before sending you flying from the aisles into the open space. You heard a growl rip from his throat before it disappeared under the ringing in your ears, a breathless groan dribbling from your agape lips, as you fell against the concrete.

In between slow blinking and painful winces, you caught sight of Peter coming down and fighting against Will. Even with the sweat starting to bead along your skin, the extra heat and lights weren’t enough yet to weaken him. You saw how fast his punches were, how slow Peter was to dodge them.

Your arms trembled as you pushed yourself onto one elbow. Gritting your teeth, you ignored the ache throbbing behind your eyes. You began to stand up again only for a blow to knock you back down and sliding across the floor.

“God, I’ve just had fucking enough of you. Stay down for once, sweetheart. Okay?”

Past watery vision, you raised your head to see a bloody Ellis pointing a gun down at you. You held your breath, not daring to move as nausea and fear turned to sludge in your stomach. His knuckles look torn and raw, his suit ripped along his shoulders and arms. One hand of his ran through his hair, leaving a smear of blood along his hairline.

Just as you were to silently call for Peter again or to close your eyes and wait for this all to be over, a strangled groan echoed throughout the warehouse. A second later, Peter’s ragged body flew from the shelves and hit the ground, sliding until he slammed into the building’s wall. A cry escaped your mouth at seeing his limp form, and you only breathed again once you saw him beneath the debris and dust. Blood dribbled from his shoulder. More rips spread along his suit. But weakly, slowly, you could see his chest continue to rise and fall.

Before you could try to crawl over to him, Will emerged from the aisles — his smile victorious even as his muscles shook. From where you lay, you couldn’t see any more guards. Peter must have gotten them all. Now you just needed a little more time.

“His current state is going to make it harder to get answers out of him, William,” Ellis said. He stretched his neck side to side as he continued to train his gun directly at your heart.

Will let out a breathy laugh as he made his way closer. “I was just having some fun testing out my powers.” He flexed his hands in front of him, his heartbeat visible in the raised veins just beneath his skin. “Besides, I’m sure there are ways to get him to talk…”  

His gaze rose to connect with yours.

He dropped the end of his blade to the ground, letting it drag against the concrete with each step. The slicing sound may as well have been the blade itself running along your throat.

You began to shuffle backward, needing to get as far away from him and his torture plan as possible. Your teeth dug so far into your cheek that you began to taste blood. Fresh tears pooled along your eyes as you called out, “When were you going to tell him, Ellis?”

Still several feet away, Will paused for a moment, the blade hanging looser from his grasp. His eyes flicked to his father’s.

Ellis' shout echoed across the building, making you flinch. “What are you doing? Grab her. We need to leave.”

You didn’t let either of them think before blurting out, “When were you going to tell your son that his body’s rejecting the DNA? That they’re going to kill him?”

Ellis nearly growled out his next words as he stalked closer. “Shut. Up. You don’t know anything, you worthless girl.”

You scrambled back farther, your hands searching for anything along the ground. Your fingers grasped a broken shard of glass, bringing it in front of your body. It looked so miniscule, so useless, trembling before him.

“Is that true?”

Will’s words broke through, and for a brief moment, you recognized him again — he was the man you danced with. Only this time, he looked empty.

The question made Ellis stop this time, his eyes squeezing shut for a second.

“Father?”

You saw how Will’s skin looked red and blotchy, how his breathing became harder with each passing second. He knew something was wrong.

“Tell him, Ellis. Tell him why he’s becoming weaker by the minute.” You tried to keep your voice steady, and though it wavered and scratched, it still struck the tense thread holding them together.

For too long, no one spoke. You fought to not look away from Ellis’ stare that pierced through you. Every breath, every tiny move he made, you watched him from behind the broken glass.

Will pleaded, shouting,“Dad!”

Finally, Ellis broke from the trance and dropped the gun just slightly, turning toward Will. You took the brief moment to glance to Peter. In… out. In… out. He was here. He was okay. He would be okay.

You turned back when Ellis let out a resigned sigh, refusing to fully meet his son’s gaze. “We are working on a cure… a treatment to stabilize your body’s reactions. There was no use in worrying you before we found it.”

“Except that tiring his body worsens it — it kills him faster,” you gritted past split lips, despite flinching when Ellis aimed the gun at you again.

“Shut the hell up!” he yelled, gripping the gun’s handle until his knuckles turned white. You raised your chin higher.

“Is she right?” Will asked.

“I…” Ellis began, groaning and dropping the gun to his side. He reached his other hand toward Will, turning toward him completely. “It’s…” And for once, you heard Ellis Beaumont have nothing to say — no lies to spew. Still, he approached Will, trying to embrace him.

But Will backed away, his tripping over one another. “You did this to me,” he whispered, almost in awe. Then, his voice rose with each word until he was shouting. “You used me as some lap dog and knew that it was destroying me from the inside out?”

Ellis approached again. “Son–”

“No! Get the hell off me,” Will screamed, pressing his hands into his father’s chest and shoving with all his strength.

Ellis stumbled, and you relished in the way his mouth opened and shut without saying anything. 

“No. Don’t say another goddamn thing. No more telling me what to do like I’m a child,” he paused, his jaw clenching. His irises seemed to glow a sickly green, his voice becoming deep and alien. “Like I’m just some tool to get you your money.”

What lit the awaiting wick, though, was Ellis — in all his confidence and cowardice for his own safety — raised his gun at his son. You swore you saw the instant Will lost all semblance of control.

His body surged forward, tackling his father to the ground. Ellis yelled out, but it cut short when he hit the concrete. Any noise he made disappeared under the sound of Will’s fist hitting his dad. An animalistic growl rang out, and for a moment, you sat entranced, watching the pain pass across both of their faces as they battled. 

You stared at the tears flying from Will’s eyes until your arm could no longer hold up the shard of glass. Its sharp edges pressed into your skin, but as they continued fighting, you dropped it to crawl toward Peter’s body.

Your eyes stayed on the two men while you passed over debris and the occasional webbed-up guard. You pushed away the wreckage despite the aching fire licking across every part of your body. Glimpses of red peaked through as you uncovered Peter. Immediately, you felt his chest for a pulse, for his ragged-but-stable breaths. A gasp escaped your mouth as you felt it dimly beating. You then moved to put pressure on the bullet wound on his side. 

The pained groan he let out choked your heart. On the tip of your tongue, his name stood begging to leap off the edge and surround his body until he was okay again.

Instead, with darting eyes and trembling lips, you whispered, “Spidey.”

When he didn’t respond, you took hold of his arms and shook him slightly. Tears dripped down your cheeks, your voice becoming more desperate. “C’mon. We have to go. You have to get out of here.” You pushed his exposed hair back under his mask again. He barely stirred.

“Please,” you cried out, pulling on him, prepared to try and drag him out of there. “You can’t ditch me, asshole. I’m not doing this alone.”

Beneath the yelling of Ellis’ pleading and Will’s incessant punches, you heard Peter murmur something. You didn’t dare breathe, only whispering for him to repeat.

“You’re… an… asshole,” Peter grumbled, his face twisting as he opened his eyes. His head lolled to the side, a dry swallow passing down his throat. If he wasn’t in so much pain, you might’ve thought about hitting him for that. Instead, a splitting smile overtook your face.

But you didn’t have time to stop when Peter’s hands tensed around you. He moved just slightly to look toward the Beaumonts, prompting you to whip your head in their direction again.

You looked just in time to see Will wavering above Ellis, his eyes blinking slower and slower. A second later, he slumped forward and off of Ellis’ body onto the ground. Will appeared to be breathing still, but he was weak. 

Any momentary relief you felt vanished as Ellis sat up, that wild look back on his face. Your hold on Peter tightened, your body thrown back into desperate fear. Ellis reached a few feet out to grab the blade Will had before training his eyes on you — like a predator locked onto its prey.

“You little-”

Grabbing Peter’s nearly limp arm, you repeatedly pressed down on his web shooter’s trigger before Ellis could finish his sentence. Webs flew out and encompassed the man, wrapping him and sticking him to the floor.

“Thank you,” Peter muttered. “He was giving me a headache.”

You were sure it was the multiple head injuries doing that, but you appreciated the humor while your heart rate returned to normal.

“C’mon. We’re leaving,” you urged him. With all of your strength, you did your best to support Peter’s weight as he slowly stood and staggered onto you. You could hear the groans he continued to bite back.

You held onto him tight, keeping him balanced. “Okay, do you have your phone on you?”

“Yeah…”

You waited for him to fish it out from a slim pocket. Using your free hand, you took several pictures of the Beaamonts lying there and the ruined warehouse. Your investigative heart wanted to take a hundred images from every angle, but your rational mind told you to leave. It took all your effort to move on. Trying to ignore the dizziness in the corners of your vision, you wrapped an arm around Peter’s side and walked to the back of the warehouse.

You both passed through the back door, out over the threshold of that place — finally out into the night for good. He’d be okay.

Along the warehouse’s high windows, flashes of police lights reflected down onto Peter’s face. He gritted his teeth and raised his arm to the skyline, staring into your eyes. “Ready, sunshine?”

You let yourself be pulled in closer to his side, blinking away the stinging tears.

And from this angle, with cascading cherry and violet lights raining down onto Peter’s profile, you found that you didn’t mind red and blue so much anymore.

Nodding, you slowly drew your eyes to his. “Ready.”

—

Your words spilled through gritted teeth, your jaw clenched tight. “I hate you so much, Peter.” 

Your palms were sweaty as you forced yourself to stay focused despite that rage building in your chest. It continued up your body, crawling along your throat.

“Really? After all I’ve done for you?” Peter asked, his tone incredulous. You could feel the waves of heat rolling off of him.

Your expression sinking into a frown, you muttered, “It’s only fitting, considering that you lie and hide secrets.”

“Oh come on…” He scoffed, holding up a hand. “That’s low. And if you think about it, it was really only one secret!”

“That you lied about multiple times!”

He sat back next to you against the couch cushions, the weight of him drawing you closer. “You’re just a sore loser, and you’re angry that I whooped your ass in Mario Kart. Again,” he said, and you finally turned your gaze from the screen to look at him.

Light streamed in through his apartment’s window, the afternoon sun dancing across his face. His eyes turned to a soft caramel under its attention. His hair was undone, feathering along his forehead. Slowly, he grew closer, raising one eyebrow as if daring you to tell him he’s wrong.

Crossing your arms, determined not to be affected by his stare, you told him, “I literally beat you in the last game.”

He rolled his eyes. “Cause you cheated!”

“Look who’s the sore loser now,” you laughed out, your mouth turning into a gentle smile.

The two of you were face to face on the couch, breaths mixing together. A moment of silence passed, Peter’s softening eyes roaming across you. His thumb reached over to brush along the outside of your thigh. “You’re lucky you’re adorable.”

You didn’t try to fight your wide grin or the heat rising to your cheeks. In a whisper, you asked, “You think I’m adorable?”

His only answer was a slight huff as he leaned forward, kissing you. It only lasted a moment, your lips chasing his when he pulled away. “I’m gonna grab a drink, don’t sabotage my controller while I’m gone,” he teased, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Want anything?”

“I’ll take whatever’s on tap,” you said, laughing when he rolled his eyes.

Slowly, he rose from the couch, taking heavy breaths as he winced. His healing injuries — mental and physical — were better, but they weren’t gone altogether. Neither were yours. 

They probably wouldn’t be for a while. Though, after waking up panicked and breathless from repeated nightmares, it helped having someone there to bring you back down. It helped having someone take care of yourself when that seemed impossible. And it helped knowing you weren’t alone in this.

You watched him make his way to the kitchen, rummaging around in the fridge. In these past days since the warehouse incident, it sometimes scared you how easy this was. Staying at his apartment together, helping one another recover. Your things sat scattered around his place, like they belonged. You wondered when he was going to say something, to ask you to go back home and tend to your wounds alone. When you both healed, would it all go back to how it was?

When a notification sound came from Peter’s phone, your eyes drew down to it for a second. Not knowing whether it was urgent Spider-Man business — not that he should’ve been doing it given his state — you called out, “Your phone dinged!”

Head still in the fridge, his words muffled, Peter called back, “Can you check it for me?”

You paused for a moment, letting a feeling of warmth settle in your chest before grabbing his phone. Just from the notification preview, you could tell what it was.

“Add another tally to your offers to interview for a job,” you told him, shaking your head — a smile evident in your voice. “This one’s for a junior photographer position.”

“What does that bring us up to now?” he asked, closing the refrigerator. He brought a glass of water and what you assumed was Dr. Pepper that’d gone flat.

“I think we’re tied at three each — though they’re just asking us to apply and interview.” You let out a sigh, trying not to get your hopes up. “It’s no guarantee of a job. They’re just interested in our story.”

Peter pointed a finger at you from around the glass. “Our story that kicks ass and put the corrupt city manager and his son away. That’s a piece that belongs on something bigger than The Daily Bugle.”

“You really think so?”

You looked up at him, chewing on your bottom lip.

“Sunshine, the greatest compliment Jameson could spit out was that it’s a ‘mighty fine’ story — before obviously yelling at us for not getting more pictures of Spider-Man during it… and that our injuries were no excuse, of course,” he told you with a wry sarcasm as he set the glasses down on the coffee table. Sitting next to you, his expression softened. His hand wrapped around yours. “But now you have the chance at something bigger.”

You grinned back at him. “But how could I ever pass up a job with… how’d he say it? ‘Minimal benefits and guaranteed maximum overtime’?”

Peter’s laugh rumbled through his chest, vibrating a comforting rhythm against you. Next to you, your phone buzzed this time. Picking it up, you told him, “Oh, another one! It’s 4 to 3 now — I’m in the lead.”

His grin made yours even wider, and you were unable to fight it as his hands cupped your jaw, his fingers careful to avoid the bruises along your cheekbone. “You see? You’ve got the whole world in the palm of your hand.” His eyes pulled you in, begging you to fall into him completely as he pressed his lips to yours once again.

You could’ve stayed there forever, sitting on that ripped couch in Peter’s apartment that you swore to never return to. Your fingers twisted in the ends of his hair pulling him even closer. The rest of the world melted away for at least a little while, leaving just the two of you in this bubble. When you eventually pulled away, your foreheads rested against one another, your nose nudging against his.

“Oh!” you said, leaning back, “I almost forgot. I picked up a frame while out grocery shopping — I couldn’t help myself.” You stood up, grabbing a bag from the dining table and pulling out a cheap picture frame. The story you’d already cut out from the newspaper felt smooth between your fingers as you carefully placed it in the frame.

You kept it close to your body while looking around for a good spot to hang it up, not that the walls had much — or anything — really on them. Deciding on a nice place between the door and living room, you asked, “Want to do the honors?”

Fishing out a nail from his tool drawer, which was really just a kitchen drawer full of scattered household items, you held it out to Peter along with the frame. It took some willpower to not gasp as he merely pushed the nail into the wall without a hammer and hung up the frame.

Straightening it just right, he stepped back and wrapped his arm around your back. You took it in, the first real decoration in his apartment — the story that brought the two of you together framed against the pale walls. Your names shone clearly at the top, next to the large letters spelling out, “Fundraiser or Fraud? The Beaumont Empire Falls.”

Leaning into him, your palm rubbing circles on his lower back, you asked, “Do you like it?”

His voice came out soft, the words curling around the ends of your body. “It’s perfect.”

It wasn’t, not with the ill-fitting frame or the story that likely needed further digging and refining. But right now, with Peter, it was perfect. You let your mind run through everything you two had gone through together, how you’d ended up here.

After a minute of thinking, though, something kept drawing your attention. Pursing your lips, you turned back to him. “Hey Peter?”

“Hmm?”

“I just have a quick question. When we were trying to get into the fundraiser, you said you ‘knew a guy.’ Did you just mean yourse-”

“Myself? Yeah. I’m the guy,” he told you, nodding repeatedly. Nonchalantly.

You scoffed, slightly laughing. You really were insane to have gone in on this project with him. “And then you made fake IDs and gave me some fake wedding ring so we could sneak in…” you said in disbelief.

Turning to grab his drink from the table, he furrowed his eyebrows. “The ring you borrowed? ‘S not fake — do you still have that, by the way?” he asked, taking a sip. “Need to return that.”

You took a beat staring at him wordlessly. Your mind crossed several things to say that you decided to hold back. “Peter, what do you mean it’s not fake? That giant rock on my finger was real?”

“Yeah, I borrowed it as a favor from a jewelry store. I saved the place from robbers breaking in.” He shrugged, the flannel his wore swaying around his body.

This relationship was going to take years off of you… 

Your fingers pinched the bridge of your nose. “I’m going to kill you,” you half-heartedly murmured. Your eyes raised to meet his, your finger pointing at him. “You know, you’re so careless about all this. I fucking knew you were Spider-Man for so long.”

“Oh, bullshit,” he laughed out, walking closer to you. “Now you didn’t. And as long as we’re being honest, I was going to give you the Daily Bugle job offer at the end of the internship the whole time. So really… you didn’t have to do any of this.” His face morphed into a teasing cockiness that sparked a fire in your chest.

The two of you stared at one another, eyes alight but mouths fighting back smiles. All at once, a calm washed over you. “Are we done bickering?”

Peter rested his hands on your hips. He nodded softly, sweetly, as if nothing but you filled his mind. “Yeah, we’re done.”

You leaned forward, kissing him once before whispering against his lips, “Great, now grab the controller — ‘m gonna kick your ass in Mario Kart again.”

@dil3mma @hollandweather @reidslovely @a-lumos-in-the-nox @keepingitlokiii @thedevax @sincericida @agent-tempest @olivezgalore @qwintlimon7 @eddieslooneymoonie @aheadfullofsteverogers @bitchy-bi-trash

[reidwitchsblog]

My Ticci Toby HC

Warning: 18+ content, mention of dead animals, mention of people’s death, mention of scars, wrong use of punctuation marks.

Author’s note: While I take my sweet time writing the second part of my fict, enjoy this little headcanons that have been on my mind.

Author’s note 2: I created this playlist that basically captures everything you need to know about the way I hc him.

Minors DNI.

PERSONALITY

His personality is, for a lack of better words, eerie. Most of the time he is silent and observant, and due to his past he doesn’t show his true personality often, but rather he morphs into a person that he thinks the others will like, it could be a mature young man, or a sarcastic little shit.

I believe that when he kills, he tortures his victims due to the fact that the concept of pain is foreign to him. He enjoys to try different torture methods

His biggest desire is to have a home. It is something he keeps a secret from others, not really because he is afraid of being made fun of, but rather because he feels that as long as no one knows, the fact that it’s never going to happen will hurt less. So he keeps that deep inside him, in a safe place, like a little photograph that he can take out and look when he is feeling down.

As much as he despises being angry (it reminds him of his dad), he can’t help it, he is his father’s son after all. When he gets mad, his first instinct is to bear his teeth and growl. And if the person he is fighting with doesn’t take the cue, he will attack, aiming for the throat as soon as he has the opportunity.

And talking about dogs, HE LOVES LIKE A HOUND DOG, once that he catch a scent that is appealing to him, there is nothing, and no one, that’s able to stop him. He is going to chase it until he has it in his maw, without very little regard as to whether he is hurting himself.

PHYSICAL

I see many people saying that my man is the shortest one out of all proxies, but, respectfully, I think they are wrong. He just gives me tall man vibes, HOWEVER, I think his poor posture makes him stand at 6’0, when he normally is 6’2, which comes really handy when he wants to scare his victims.

We all agree that he has the most beautiful light brown eyes, they are like pools of honey, warm and inviting, which contrast massively with the scowl he seems to permanently wear.

Although he is more on the skinny side, he has gained some muscles over the years due to all the physical work he does; chopping wood, running around, carrying his victims… sadly he covers them with either flannels or grandpa sweaters.

Still on the topic of grandpa sweaters, he looooves them, mainly because they remind him of his late sister, whose last Christmas present were two brown and green sweaters. His to go outfit is a short sleeved band shirt, a flannel, a pair of dark denim jeans, his old shearling jacket and and a pair of black Converse. When he is alone is his cabin he opts for a wife beater and a pair of flannel pajama pants.

His whole body is covered in scars, most of them being self inflicted, and fewer being the ones made by his bravest victims that naively thought that a knife would’ve stopped Toby from killing them. He doesn’t hate them per say, he even thinks some of them are cool, but in the coldest nights, when he is alone with his thoughts, he can’t help but to despise every single part of his body, including his scars.

RANDOM HC

He has a small collection of various trinkets hidden in a wooden box beneath his bed. Some of them are old photos with his sister, rocks that he thought they were pretty, keychains that he stole from different gas stations, etc. At first glance it would look just like a pile of crap, but I can assure you everything has a reason to be there.

He was born in Germany but moved to South Carolina when he was 5.

He enjoys listening to music, his favorite genre is old rock. The Rolling Stones, Queen, Van Morrison, Fleetwood Mac, Bon Jovi, Blondu… his favorite song is “Brown eyed Girl” and you can’t change my mind.

He is the softest person when it comes to animals, he feels so bad when he finds any dead animal near the road, and he always gives them a proper burial, he even says some words along the lines of “the world was cruel to you when all you wanted was some warmth”. He so cried with the poem about spiders.

⋆｡°✩ — ©️ reidwitchsblog, 2023 - don’t repost, translate, copy, or claim.

[spectralsleuth]

You mentioned that the Hamato household in LSoW and LSoE looks like a wizard's house and that it is filled with furniture that Yoshi inherited from his family... Can you imagine how much historians and antique collectors would be just going gaga about all the priceless stuff in the Hamato home. Like every room has original hand-crafted tables, desks, etc. that can be dated back hundreds of years, the walls have scrolls and weapons crafted by famous masters from 300 years ago. I can just imagine that Yoshi agreed to an interview in his home and, never mind his turtle kids, someone points out the furniture and wall art and people go nuts! This aging action star is just casually mentioning how his sons used to teeth on the chair legs and antique collectors around the world die a little, all while he is sitting on an old chair that was made from a rare tree in Japan worth as much as a down payment on the house and just sipping tea like it's nothing.

Yoshi tapped his foot irritably.

"I really don't understand what the problem is- you sound like my Grandfather." Not a flattering comparison.

"You're not even using a coaster." The camera man looked as if he was in pain, and Yoshi could honestly say that he had not had this much chit-chat from any crew member he'd ever had in his home.

The house was still in a slight state of disarray from the move- there were boxes in the master bedroom stacked to the ceiling, and Blue and Purple had not been separated long enough to be convinced of the benefits of their own bedroom. As a result, both of their bedrooms were half unpacked and mixed together.

Yoshi wasn't particularly passionate about separating the two, but considering every single day it seemed they broke into screaming matches and biting, you would think they would enjoy having their own space as much as Orange and Red did.

It was not so. He could barely get them to sleep in their own bed at this point, but since they were only eight he thought it was prudent to take the separation slow. (At least that was what Dr. Harper had said, when he had floated the idea of encouragement via booby traps and spray bottles by her.)

"It is a piece of furniture- it is meant to be used." It wasn't often that Yoshi thought he was mistranslating English- but he thought this might be one of those situations. The confused looks the Vanity Fair reporter was giving him was selling that impression, and he did not much care for it. "I set things on it? I put- items, in the drawers?" What was the other word for items- funny words, like, oh what was it. "Knick knacks." Sounded like a word for underwear if you asked him.

"This is from the Meiji era." The camera man explained, reverently removing Yoshi's coffee mug from the polished wooden surface. A lost cause, since there was already many overlapping rings of differing shades of brown covering the surface.

There were chips and scuffs covering the top, small marks where Red had rolled over the top during chases with his brothers and left shell-shaped divots, and where Blue and Purple had scratched with idle claws while watching the Mr. Nye TV show. There were crayon marks on the sides, where Orange had run off of his paper with his crayons. He was a good boy and did not draw on furniture on purpose, but accidents happened, and Xander often could not keep up.

"Yes, my great great grandfather commissioned it. I believe from the Emperor's carpenters, to celebrate the new constitution and property they bought in- well, I honestly do not recall. Is this relevant?" Yoshi asked wearily, feeling a twinge of displeasure at even starting to sound like his Ojii lecturing on history.

"There's only about fifty pieces made total in this style- there's no nails in the construction, look it's all joinery on the shelves-" The camera-man was saying, and to Yoshi's displeasure the reporter was still recording using the small device in her hand.

"I thought we were discussing my new movie." Yoshi pointed out, not plaintively, because he was a grown man with four children. "I mean, I have older furniture than that in the bathroom."

The camera man paused, and stared at him. "... Sorry?"

"The bathroom." Yoshi pointed out, and (sensing another translation issue possibly), said "It is where you piss."

"Piss!" Orange yelled from the hallway, where he went sprinting by with the tap-tap-tap of feet.

"DO NOT REPEAT THAT!" Yoshi called out. He was drowned out by Blue and Red fast on Oranges tail, screaming with laughter. It was nice to hear Red's laughter for a change, but since his eldest was also chasing his brothers with a stock pot and a spoon, Yoshi thought he should intervene. "Excuse me, one moment."

Red was only willing to trade the stockpot for a yardstick, which he began beating on Blue and Orange's shells respectively. Since his two youngest were giggling wildly, Yoshi left them to it and turned on cartoons in one of the bedrooms for them to watch when they grew tired of hitting each other.

By the time he got back to the Vanity Fair crew, they had gathered in the hallway, and were being shown the bathroom by a very pleased looking Purple.

"Ah Purple, excellent work my son- ah. I was kidding about the furniture-"

"No you weren't." The cameraman accused, looking frantic and pale. "This is a silver backed oriental mirror from under- oh I don't know. Kōmei? Ninkō?

"Kōka." Yoshi corrected, hating himself. "So, both probably."

Purple tugged on the cameraman's sleeve, and (looking hesitant) the camera man bent down to listen as Purple cupped hands around his snout in order to whisper in his ear.

"YOU WRITE ON IT?" The man gasped, looking appalled.

"I have raised a tattle-taler." Yoshi said mournfully, as Purple looked smugly at him from behind the reporter's legs. "Why don't you go help smack your brothers you snitch?"

Purple's tail started thumping against the cabinet at the idea, and he dropped to all fours to put on speed as he darted out between Yosh's legs and down the hall.

"Why are you so obsessed with furniture anyway?" Yoshi asked the cameraman after Purple had disappeared down the stairs, and he heard Blue and Orange start squealing in delight.

"My parents own a museum exhibit." The camera man said idly, pulling the mirror back from the wall enough to peer behind, and make a wounded noise. "It has the manufacturer seal on it still."

"Oh course it does. All Hamato furniture is authentic."

"It has crayon on it." The camera man looked close to tears.

"Yes?" Yoshi didn't understand the question. He looked at the reporter, who was still recording and writing furiously. "You are going to want to put this into the article, aren't you?" Yoshi sighed.

The reporter gave him a winning smile. "I think our readers would enjoy this very much Mr. Hamato."

[shamera]

An Oar Upon the Water (MLC ficlet)

Fandom: Mysterious Lotus Casebook Character/Pairing(s): Di Feisheng / Li Lianhua / Fang Duobing Rating: PG Warning: none? fluff! DreamWidth link

"There are some people who leave impressions not so lasting as the imprint of an oar upon the water." -Kate Chopin

Despite his reputation, Li Lianhua didn’t always work as a physician for money.

Of course he didn’t, not when he saw sick children lining the streets or parents offering what little they had if only someone would help— and he could help. Perhaps it was unwise to use his Yangzhouman in those cases, but he once tried to make the world a better place and it turned out to be a habit hard to break.

For the poorer families, he often got cases of vegetables (he would accept seeds for payment as well) or whatever homemade kits of items they could afford to give away. Once, a young girl gifted him with a tiny wood carving for helping her injured brother.

“It’s my favourite,” she lisped in a mock-whisper, holding it up for him with both hands. She was missing at least two of her front teeth, and had her hair barely contained in a childish bun on the side of her head. “Brother made it for me.”

Li Lianhua had knelt before her to keep her at eye level, a little tired but not overly so from his session. “You should keep it, then. It must be worth more than anything in the world.”

She brightened at his acknowledgement, all but thrusting the little wood piece at his chest. “It is! But you have it, okay? Brother can make a new one for me now.”

And thus Li Lianhua ended up with various knick-knacks in Lotus Tower that he just couldn’t bear to throw away.

—

After the cumulation of everything, Li Lianhua returned to Lotus Tower filled with trepidation. With nothing else to do (he had practically been ordered under house arrest! He was rarely left alone, and even when he was, Hulijing barked loudly every time he walked outside the door!), he found himself organising boxes and drawers in an attempt to keep busy.

By the time Fang Duobing came back, slouching a little from exhaustion from dealing with angry officials who could hardly believe the results (and arrests) from a case, he found Li Lianhua in the middle of a chaotic mess on the ground, piles of random trinkets thrown atop the table and chairs and floor.

“What are you doing?” The younger man asked, mentally despairing at the idea of cleaning all that up in order to make room for dinner. He crept close, toeing the mess warily.

It was Hulijing, sprawled across Li Lianhua’s lap for a nap, who twitched an ear and acknowledged Fang Duobing’s presence first, opening a single eye and then huffing a breath before going back to her nap.

Li Lianhua, on the other hand, took a long moment before he looked up from his inventory, ink dotting the edge of his sleeves as he examined several wooden objects before picking up the wet brush that was resting a little too close to his clothes and writing something down on paper. He looked up only after he was finished.

“Xiaobao,” he acknowledged warmly. “How did it go?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” Fang Duobing replied, raising his chin proudly. He leaned over a large stack of books on the table. “What are you doing?”

“Organising.” Li Lianhua responded absentmindedly, and then paused. He gestured Fang Duobing forward with a hand. “Come here.”

It took him a moment to carefully step over the mess, and then lean down as Li Lianhua gestured him closer again, waiting as the man took one of the small wooden pieces and pressed it against the nearly empty plate of ink set on the side of the floor. Then Li Lianhua grabbed him by the hand and pressed the wooden bit against his skin.

“Good job on the last case.” Li Lianhua told him, and then lifted the wooden piece, making a pleased noise at what it revealed.

Fang Duobing lifted his hand, at first bothered by the ink stain and then amused as he saw the six petal flower impression left on his skin. “Thanks. What’s this?”

“I couldn’t figure out the shape of it.” Li Lianhua told him, setting the wooden stamp back down on the ground.

Fang Duobing gave only a moment’s dubious glance at the paper next to Li Lianhua, and then decided to ignore the small lie. He was coming to realise how Li Lianhua would speak, truth and lies mixed together in the grand scheme of things at all times, and this was one of those moments where he was deflecting with a small lie, one that was far too easy to pick out. It had taken him months originally to realise: Li Lianhua was actually a pretty bad liar.

“Is that a seal?” Fang Duobing asked, lifting his hand to better examine the shape. The petals were roughly carved, and the ink was slightly blotchy, bleeding a bit onto his skin already. It was cute, the size no bigger than a fingernail. “Did you make it?”

Li Lianhua shook his head absentmindedly. “Given to me, I think.”

Fang Duobing made a considering noise, and thought about Li Lianhua pressing the stamp against his skin to tell him he did a good job. “I’ll get you a better one. Something lotus-shaped. And cinnabar ink.”

“What use would I have for that?” Li Lianhua asked. He was already examining something else in the pile next to him, head turned away. “I have no official documents to sign.”

Fang Duobing gave a considering hum as he examined the flower on his hand, and smiled. “I’ll get you one, anyway.”

—

Wuyan paused in his daily report as Di Feisheng turned his head slightly to read the document next to him with the same apparent disinterest as usual.

“Ahh.” He blinked as his leader’s gaze turned toward him at the uncharacteristic hesitation. “Apologies, Director. You have, ahh—”

Di Feisheng was dressed impeccably as always, deep violet robes underneath a thick patterned black overrobe held tightly together by black leather wrist guards and belt, both sewn with silver edging. Everything was put together well, perfectly groomed, and his hair was in its familiar crown, yet—

Wuyan pointed to his own cheek and said, “You seem to have something here.”

The ‘something’ was barely more than a smudge of ink, but one that formed the shape of a six petaled flower, only the slightest bit smeared.

Surprisingly, the Jinyuan Alliance leader smiled slightly. “Yes.”

Wuyan cleared his throat, and decided not to comment on it further. Considering Di Feisheng had come back for the reports directly from Lotus Tower, very little was going to actually surprise Wuyan at this point.

He’d just have to ensure no one else commented on it later.

—

When Di Feisheng made his way back to Lotus Tower just after the sun set, the floor was cleared of clutter once more, everything orderly and tidy and wiped clean. The fire under the kettle was lit, the flame small but bright and warm in the autumn evening. There were several pots bubbling happily, emitting smells of herbs and medicine that stung his nose slightly.

Li Lianhua was seated next to the pots, hunched over slightly and mending a rip in some dark green robes, rattan fan set down next to him.

“Where’s the brat?” Di Feisheng asked in lieu of a greeting, seating himself next to Li Lianhua.

“Xiaobao took Hulijing down to the stream,” Li Lianhua responded, not bothering to look up from his task. “And since you have your hands free, you can help me fan the pots.”

Di Feisheng thought of refusing for only a moment (mostly to see Li Lianhua's reaction) but then took up the fan, keeping his movements slow enough to feed the flames but not fast enough to agitate. He watched as Li Lianhua carefully mended the rip with a dark thread, and then finally tied off the end with a clumsy double knot before snipping the excess and smoothing out the fabric triumphantly.

“That should do it,” Li Lianhua said. “Before I put this away, did you have— A’Fei.”

Di Feisheng raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement, still fanning.

Li Lianhua raised a sleeve to hide his smile. “You didn’t wipe it off? I thought you were angry at Fang Xiaobao for that. Should I—?”

“Leave it.” Di Feisheng said, halting Li Lianhua’s movement toward a rag. “It’s fine.”

“Did anyone else see it?”

Of course they did. Di Feisheng hadn’t exactly hidden from his meetings. None other than Wuyan dared to comment on the flower mark on his face.

“I should have hidden it,” Li Lianhua continued, tone amused.

“Where did you put it, then?”

Li Lianhua indicated toward the dresser by the door, close enough they could reach it without getting up. “I covered the ink earlier.”

Di Feisheng leaned over, reaching across over Li Lianhua’s warm back to grab the little wooden stamp, and then took a moment’s deliberation before grabbing the ink plate as well, pulling it back toward the table. Li Lianhua was watching him with a quirked smile, heading tilted as if questioning what he was doing.

He put the fan down and uncovered the ink plate to dip the stamp in, and then reached toward Li Lianhua even as the man leaned away with a huff of amusement.

“Oh no,” Li Lianhua said. “You don’t get to turn this around on me! I wasn’t the one who left that on your face!”

“Why not?” Di Feisheng asked, taking it as a challenge as he moved to keep the man within reach. “Fang Duobing has this mark too, doesn’t he?”

“He’s probably washed it off by now— A’Fei!”

Di Feisheng darted to reach around the mended robe Li Lianhua was using as a makeshift shield, and feinted in one direction only to push into the other man's personal space, leaving him no room to retreat if he didn’t want to get up from the chair, until Li Lianhua laughed from the sheer absurdity of it and Di Feisheng managed to slip a hand to cup the bottom of his head and gently press the stamp between his brows.

Li Lianhua's smile softened, “A huadian? Really?”

Di Feisheng found himself smiling in return. “It suits.”

Outside, the sounds of paws running on the road reached their ears moments before they heard Fang Duobing call out, “I’m back! We got a lot of fish in the traps— should we smoke it overnight?”

Li Lianhua gave Di Feisheng an amused, challenging look as the latter let him go and pulled back just as the door opened to let both Fang Duobing and Hulijing inside from the cold.

“Lao Di!” Fang Duobing greeted cheerfully. He was carrying a stick laden with fish tied to the end, arm bracers missing and his sleeves rolled up slightly to expose his forearms. “When did you get back?”

Then he took in the scene and stopped in his tracks, laughing at the two men with flower stamps on their faces sitting on the same bench.

Di Feisheng was gracious enough to let the young man laugh for several long moments before he handed the wooden stamp to Li Lianhua and commented casually, “I’ll hold him down.”

Li Lianhua accepted the object graciously, also taking the entire ink plate as Di Feisheng stood up. “Alright.”

“Wait, wait, wait! You’re not serious, are you? Wait!”

Li Lianhua smiled and made sure to press the stamp down extra hard in the ink.

[shirayuricky]

strawberries for you | nakakita yuma

(divider by @cafekitsune)

pairing: nakakita yuma x fem! reader

genre: fluff

warnings: mentions of food

word count: 0.5k

a/n: i thought of sweetening up my account so here i am! just so you know that i also accept fluff/soft thoughts. thank you 🩷

"y/n, i'll be a little late than usual. dance practice got extended until 9 pm." yuma messaged. "alright, i'll prepare something for you at home. maybe it would energise you a bit after a long day." you messaged him back.

you looked at the clock, it's 8 pm. only an hour until yuma finishes dance practice. you instantly went to the kitchen and found four bottles of strawberry milk, which you've recently brought during grocery shopping a week ago.

"i'll bring them out later. all i need to do now is to prepare a bowl of freshly cut strawberries with some pocky sticks...i think i have them stored in my room." you rushed upstairs to your room and opened the cabinet which you usually store some snacks in case you get randomly hungry in the night. you got two boxes of strawberry pocky in the cabinets. "nice, i'll bring them out." you brought them out and went back to the kitchen as you opened the boxes of strawberry pocky sticks. you laid them orderly on a white wooden plate. 

you opened the fridge and took out a box of fresh strawberries. you put them on a strainer as you washed them thoroughly. one by one, you cut them into small pieces and put them into a bowl. you placed it next to the wooden plate.

you decided to keep the strawberry milk in the fridge, only taking them out once yuma gets home. while you were organising the treats, you heard the doorbell ring.

you hurrily took out two bottles of strawberry milk and placed them on the table neatly, before calling out, "coming!"

you rushed to the door, almost slipping in the process and finally opened the door. "hi, lovely." you said, kissing his forehead. “i made something for you. i thought it would energise you a bit, after all that dancing.” you said, walking to the dining area. 

yuma followed you from behind. when he landed his eyes on the strawberry treats you have prepared, a gasp escaped his lips. “y/n, you didn't have to go all out for me.” he laughs. “it's alright, actually. i didn't even had much to do earlier.” you said. 

yuma takes a bite of the sliced strawberry, it was sweet yet slightly sour. “it ended a bit earlier than 9. we got the dance accurate somehow, so the instructor gave us an early leave.” he said. “explains why i had to run to the kitchen and get the strawberry milk out of the fridge.” you laughed. 

“also, it's been a while since i ate strawberry pocky.” yuma said, taking a stick and biting half of the stick. “it has been in my room cabinet for a while. can't let them go to waste.” you explained. 

“baby?” yuma called you out, a pocky stick between his teeth. for some reason, you knew what his intention was. you put the other end of the pocky between your teeth and started munching on it bit by bit, at the same time as yuma. the pocky stick gets shorter and shorter which ends up in both of you kissing. but it's sweet because of the strawberries. 

“that's one way to kiss your girlfriend.” you giggled.

[sinnaea]

Page one draft, Claire/Wesker fic

I have another spicy fic cooking but this time with Clesker. I've never written anything with Claire before and this has been really fun to write so far. Enjoy my first page draft. As always, thank you for reading 💜

The Raccoon City Police Department holding cells was a place one would not want to spend the night. Aside from being detained for whatever crime one would commit, the mountain town’s temperature could drop to freezing in an instant as soon as the sun hid away behind the peaks. The concrete cells were already dark, dingy and dripping with water from old unattended pipes.

However, Claire Redfield was rather unfazed by her current situation. The young woman relaxed flat on her back on a wooden bench with her hands laced behind her head. Her crossed leather biker boots swayed side-to-side as she hummed a tune. Despite the cold night, she was dressed in a pair of frayed denim shorts, a deep red and well worn leather jacket with a black tank-top underneath. The ponytail of her cherry red hair hung off the edge of the bench as she continued to blissfully hum away.

The sound of heavy boots quickly stomping and approaching disrupted Claire’s jaunty tune then a loud BANG!

“What the fuck, Claire?!” a young man’s voice shouted at her and echoed throughout the holding cells. His fist pounded the metal bars.

Claire sighed and nonchalantly rolled to her side to face her older brother, Chris, who stood on the other side of the bars. She rubbed her tired eyes and yawned.

“What do you want?” she said contemptuously.

Chris, dressed in his officer uniform, was hardly shocked at his little sister’s lack of concern. But then he caught the faint whiff of something sour and earthy emanating from within the cell.

“You’re high?!” Chris said in disbelief and ran his hands through his dark military cut hair, tempted to pull them out. Instead, he released a frustrated groan and punched at the metal bars again. The loud CLANG reverberated in the concrete box.

Claire was unmoved.

“I barely had any,” she yawned. “All it did was make me sleepy. And who hasn’t driven sleepy before?”

“Un-fucking-believable.” Chris shook his head and stared at his sister through the bars. He was fed up. “I’m not bailing you out this time.”

Finally, Claire began to stir. She held back her boiling detest as she sat up on the bench and stared back at him. “Good,” she said firmly. “Maybe you’ll finally fuck off for once.”

“Why are you doing this?” he asked. “I’ve worked so hard to keep you outta trouble since we were kids. Why are you still like this?”

Claire scoffed and crossed her arms. “You really don’t get it do you?”

“Stop giving me that attitude!” Chris yelled.

“Just leave me alone.” The rebellious sister crossed her legs and shut her eyes, indicating to her brother that she was tired of his presence. “With me in here, you’ll at least have the comfort of knowing your little sister is safe and sound.” Her tone was condescending. She smirked.

A hushed growl vibrated behind Chris’s clenched teeth. His nose and mouth twitched in anger just boiling beneath the surface. But he took in a deep breath and let out a defeated sigh. He couldn’t help but admit that his sister was right. She wouldn’t get in anymore trouble at least for now. He stepped away from the metal bars that separated the siblings.

“Fine,” he said. “You stay there. I’m not covering your ass anymore.”

With her eyes still closed, Claire hummed and brushed him off.

Chris gathered his losses and walked away still frustrated with the entire predicament. No matter how many times his sister got into trouble, he always protected her. And despite what he had just said, he still felt compelled to.

Nearly an hour had passed and Claire was finally feeling sober but also mentally drained. A tiny hint of regret start to flicker within regarding her situation. And it grew into concern on whether or not Chris would actually leave her in jail. She stood up and outstretched her limbs with a loud yawn. She paced back and forth in the small cell for a few minutes and looked down at the cold floor with a tired sigh.

“You must be the lovely Claire Redfield,” a deep and very distinct voice announced.

Surprised she didn’t hear anyone approaching, Claire quickly turned toward the bars in a bit of fright. Standing on the other side was a tall and well-built man dressed in dark blue and black police attire. But he had a crown of perfect blonde hair and a sharp gaze with the brightest blue eyes that it almost seemed unnatural.

“And you are?” Claire replied with a smug attitude.

The man chuckled with a peculiar charm. “Your brother did say you are quite the wild one.”

Claire scoffed. “Oh, Chris sent you. Great.”

“I wouldn’t use the term sent. I wanted to indulge your brother,” the man said then finally introduced himself. “Captain Albert Wesker.”

Claire crossed her arms and cocked her hip. “So, you’re his boss. I suppose you’re here to set me straight. He sent Barry to talk to me once. And now you?” She rolled her eyes.

Wesker grinned, intrigued by her rebellious nature. The exact opposite of the more disciplined brother. Like a stray and untamed cat versus a working dog controlling the herd. He reached for a set of heavy keys hanging from his belt and used one to unlock the jail cell. He firmly grasped a bar and slid open the cell in one motion while keeping his eyes on the stray cat in her cage.

“Come, dearheart. Let’s go for a ride.”

[oflights]

oh this is so exciting! happy pride! You've reblogged a number of pretty bejeweled things today, and I wonder if they could be a prompt, perhaps as a gift, or an item in need of cursebreaking? no stress at all if this doesn't spark the muse!

hi!! thank you for this prompt, i kind of loved it. i chose to use this as a reference point and honestly had a lot of fun with it!

as i said yesterday, this wound up being thematically appropriate for a certain blond someone's birthday, which is why it's posting now!! i'm still working on other prompts, and feel free to keep sending some if you'd like!

this is about ~1100 words (sooo close to under 1k 😭) and features curse-breaking partners harry and draco, very jealous harry, and cheesy gemstone/eye comparisons. 💎🎈

“He bought them at auction,” Draco says in a hushed sort of voice, beaming down at the dangly gold earrings Harry is frantically casting on. “I can’t even imagine the price—not that that matters, of course, it would be thoughtful either way, but look—those are genuine pearls, Harry. Byzantine! Sixth century!”

“Sure,” Harry says through gritted teeth, not pausing in his casting. His hand is starting to cramp a little, so he drops his wand and takes a breath to gather his magic up in his spread fingers, ignoring Draco rolling his eyes and muttering something about showoffs. “Too bad they’re cursed.”

“They’re not cursed!”

“They’re definitely cursed,” Harry says, flexing his fingers over the earrings nestled in their ornate wooden box. He could cast the magic he’s working over them in his sleep—the perks of being a rather competent Curse-Breaker—and it’s no trouble at all to cast a few more times, just to be sure. More than sure. He’s absolutely certain that there’s something magically wrong with these earrings, and he’ll prove it. “And they’re ugly, beside.”

“They’re not—you have no taste.”

“They wouldn’t suit you at all, either; you’ve only got the one ear pierced,” Harry says, glancing up at the tiny diamond cuff glinting over Draco’s cartilage and the even tinier moonstone stud in his lobe, easily overlooked unless you make a habit of looking. Harry thinks he could point them out in the dark, blindfolded and spun around, but that’s not anyone’s business but his own. “Are you sure they were for you?”

“Of course they’re for me,” Draco huffs, shaking his head. “The box had my name on it, and Edmund left a note that he’d been called away but he wanted to make sure I got my present on my actual birthday instead of waiting for the party on Saturday—” The party that Harry had planned with absolutely minimal help from Edmund, who he thinks has a low chance of actually showing up, the bastard. “And, as I already told you, there are pearls.”

Harry just glares down at the stupid earrings, shaking his head.

Draco sighs. “Pearls are my birthstone.”

“Since when?”

“Since I was born in June, you nitwit.”

“They don’t even look like pearls,” Harry says, trying not to swear out loud. He’d gotten Draco a moonstone and diamond cuff so he could switch out his piercings. He’d never even considered birthstones, only that little stud that always catches his eye, and the shimmery moonstones on Draco’s watch; he’d learned about adularescence and thought about what light looked like reflected in Draco’s eyes.

At least, Harry knows, his gift is actually wearable. He can’t imagine Draco in these earrings, dangling there as he chats away with their clients and tosses his head back in laughter at Harry’s scant, interjected jokes. They’d agreed early on in their Curse-Breaking partnership that Draco was more of the natural at client relations, but Harry never feels as good as he does when he can join in and make Draco laugh. And the client, of course. That’s fine too.

He wonders if Edmund ever makes Draco laugh like that, when he’s not Portkeying off to another auction, standing Draco up for dinner with his parents, or gifting him absurd, assuredly cursed earrings. Certainly not, Harry thinks.

“I assure you that there are pearls,” Draco says, reaching out for the box. Harry smacks his hands down over it, shaking his head.

“No way, you know the rules. No touching, not until I’m sure there are no curses,” Harry says. “And I’m sure there are, so—”

“That rule is for both of us,” Draco says, swatting at Harry’s hands, laughing a little as Harry swats him back, their hands fluttering against each other over the top of box.

Harry traps both of Draco’s hands in his for a moment, grinning triumphantly, then yelps as Draco grips his hands back and slams them down on the box.

“You can’t keep me away from my birthday present,” Draco says firmly.

Before Harry can argue—before he can say he’s just protecting Draco, he’s just showing him who Edmund really is, and he could show him so much more, he could prove that Edmund is a dunce who has no idea what he has in Draco, who takes him for granted and thinks Draco would wear yellow gold and pearls and garnets and dangly, ugly, obnoxious, definitely cursed earrings in a pair when he only has one ear pierced—before any of that can come out, the door to their office bursts open to reveal a panting, red-faced Edmund, practically doubled over.

“Edmund?” Draco says, standing up from where he’s been perched on Harry’s desk and whipping his hands back.

Edmund wheezes at him, slowly straightening, his eyes widening as he holds up a very similarly-shaped wrapped box in one hand. “Wrong—present—”

“What?” Draco squawks as Harry grins broadly, triumphant.

“Don’t—open—oh—” Edmund continues, eyes going impossibly wider as he stares at the box still under Harry’s hands. “Don’t—touch—”

It’s Harry’s turn to squawk, “What?!” and whip his hands away, just as Edmund chokes out, “Cursed.”

Harry’s grin drops, staring down at the box—which is now devoid of earrings. He realizes this at the same time that Draco does, at the same time he feels a suddenly pinch in his left earlobe, jumping in his seat and yelping, “Ouch!” at the same time Draco’s hands fly up to his own ear.

He feels a weight near his cheek and gapes, wide-eyed, as he sees one of the earrings is now in Draco’s unpierced left earlobe. The other, he realizes as he cups his hand over the side of his face, is in his ear.

Harry and Draco stare at each, something charged and heated building up in the air between them, tingling where the earring is and spreading out to the tips of Harry’s fingers.

“Right,” Draco says as the moment builds, his eyes never leaving Harry’s—wide, bright, beaming with something that would be adularescence if his eyes were the moonstones they resemble. “What kind of curse, exactly?”

The earrings jingle, the magic tingles, and suddenly Draco drops into Harry’s lap, Harry’s arms going around him with little choice, their breaths quickening and a flush spreading across both their faces, as Draco’s horrible boyfriend watches.

“Erm,” Edmund says. “Right. That is to say, ah—well, you see, it might not be a curse so much as a—a bond, perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” Draco says, pants out really, staring down at Harry, who stares back, until they can’t stare any longer because they’re kissing instead.