#i may have fractured my finger

[cosmic-abysss]

cosmic may have had a category 5 dumbass moment.....

[ohproserpine]

ii. deer dolly

part i | part ii | more | ao3

tags: fem! reader, reader is a performer in a speakeasy, human! possibly ooc! alastor so he's a bit more "tame" here, unsettling & obsessive behavior, jealousy, possessiveness, written before episode 7; may become inaccurate, unwanted advances (not by alastor), murder, graphic descriptions of injuries

As the days unfolded into weeks, Alastor remained true to his word. A routine soon formed between the two of you: he would make regular visits to the speakeasy, engage in polite conversations with Mimzy, and take his usual seat to enjoy your performance.

In time, Alastor's interactions with you grew more intimate. And one night, following the success of one of your busiest night and biggest show, he surprised you with a beautiful necklace. Pulling you into your dressing room, Alastor asked for permission to formally court you. Without hesitation, you agreed, and in a burst of affection, proceeded to kiss him within an inch of your life. 

Since then, Alastor had begun to take you on dates outside the speakeasy. He whisked you away to quaint diners, lively jazz joints, and even introduced you to his mother—a sweet woman who welcomed you with open arms.

Throughout your time together, not a single one of your performances escaped Alastor'. Why would they? For him, your shows were the very essence of color in his otherwise dull and monotonous existence. His devotion to you almost mirrored religious fervor as he attended each of your shows like an impassioned disciple in the dimly lit speakeasy pews.

Your voice became a spell, luring Alastor like a foolish sailor drawn to a siren's call. In those moments, the world faded away, and he followed the melody with an irresistible pull, captivated by thoughts of you, you, you.

Only you.

Tonight, however, was anything but ordinary.

Alastor, following his usual routine, occupied his customary spot at the pub, savoring his whiskey with slow sips from his glass. However, the comforting rhythm of the night, which he had grown used to, was broken when the band screeched to a halt, the shrill notes of the violin cutting through the air. Immediately, the pub erupted in a chorus of boos and shouts.

Alastor blinked, his smile turning strained as he noticed a man stumble onto the stage. It was clear that he was intoxicated, moving about as gracefully as a headless chicken, as he made his way towards you, nearly knocking you off your feet.

Noticing the commotion, Mimzy clicked her tongue, slammed her drink onto the counter, and swiftly rose to her feet. She rushed to the stage, the glitters on her vibrant dress catching the dim lights of the speakeasy.

“Why, I oughta—" she began to seethe, as she stomped towards the stage, finger wagging in the air. “That’s the fifth time this week, Giovanni!”

"Ah, Mimzy! Jus' wanted to surprise my sweetheart," Giovanni slurred, his thick accent muddled as he clumsily leaned into you, head tucking into your neck.

Snap.

Alastor felt a visceral reaction, something within him snapping as the glass in his hand cracked under the strain of his grip. The fractured crevices dug into his skin, and golden liquor seeped out, mixing with crimson red blood.

As a regular performer at this pub, your popularity was unquestionable, and Alastor was not entirely pleased with the attention you garnered from other men. If given the opportunity, he would have you whisked away from this place. In his eyes, your voice was too lovely for a place like this. Your talent deserved a grander stage than the confines of this tacky establishment.

“Ahah,” you smiled awkwardly, shuffling away and shrugging the man's arms off of you. “Not your sweetheart, Giovanni…”

"Are you not happy to see me, carina?" Giovanni’s voice dropped to a whisper, his hand dropping to grip you by the waist. He leaned his face in closer, and you cringed. The man's breath reeked of alcohol, and his eyes were a bloodshot red. “Come on~ I came all the way to see you.”

“Ya' can go see and do whatevah the fuck you want with her after the show!” Mimzy scowled, stomping her heels onto the wooden flooring. “Can't have a moment of peace in here. Someone get him off my stage!”

"I'll do whatever the fuck I want!" Giovanni retorted, his anger bubbling over as he lashed out, kicking the microphone stand in Mimzy's direction. She barely dodged in time, the crash of the mic hitting the floor drowned out by the screeching feedback.

"Please. Just go," you pleaded, your patience wearing thin. "Why? Why do you always have to make a scene?"

"Ay, carina, don't get bratty with me. Let's talk in the back," Giovanni insisted, his grip on your shoulders tightening as he attempted to pull you off the stage. But before he could, Mimzy's guards intervened, forcefully yanking him away.

"Hey! Get ya' hands off'a me!"

Turning around, you rushed to get off the stage, but Giovanni somehow managed to break free and extended his hand, trying to grab onto you. Panic welled up within you as his hand reached out, but relief followed when he was abruptly stopped by none other than Alastor.

"Now, now," Alastor's voice had a lilt as he held onto Giovanni's wrist, but the venom woven into each word was unmistakable. His ever-present smile stretched wide, serving as a clear warning. "Causing a commotion isn't the best way to impress a lady."

"This ain't none of ya’ business. Let go’a me!" Giovanni scowled, attempting to wring his hand out of the brunette's iron grip. Alastor merely chuckled and adjusted his glasses with his free hand, the unsettling grin still playing on his lips throughout the exchange.

"This ain't none of ya’ business. Let go’a me!" Giovanni scowled, attempting to wriggle his hand out of the brunette's iron grip. Alastor merely chuckled, adjusting his glasses with his free hand, the unsettling grin still playing on his lips throughout the exchange.

"Ha ha! Kind sir, when someone disrupts a delightful performance, it becomes everyone's business," Alastor laughed, the sound of it tinged with sarcasm.

"But I must commend you. My, that impromptu performance of yours was quite remarkable; you truly made a wonderful spectacle of yourself!" Alastor's grin widened, his mocking tone drawing out laughter from the crowd.

Then, Alastor bent down to meet Giovanni face to face, his amusement fading. 

“Though I think you've overstayed your welcome, no?” Alastor's grip tightened around Giovanni's wrist, the pressure leaving bruises in its wake, hues of purple, green, and blue blossoming beneath the skin.

Alastor's grin turned sharp. "You will leave. Now."

"F-Fuck are you gonna do if I don’t, aye?" Giovanni spat, attempting to maintain a façade of bravado despite the pain. He tore his hand away from Alastor's grip, cradling his wrist. "Ya' think you can tell me what to fucking do?!"

"Hmm. I would at least advise you to salvage whatever dignity you have left and leave. If you had even a dust of intelligence in that hollow head of yours, that would have been the first thing you'd have done," Alastor chuckled.

“Damn right. Ya ain't got no fuckin place in my establishment,” Mimzy scowled, snapping her fingers and gesturing towards the men surrounding Giovanni. “Take him away, boys!”

As Mimzy’s goons surrounded him again, Giovanni sneered, "This ain't over."

"Oh, my dear pal, I assure you, it is very much over. The lady has made her wishes very clear," Alastor grinned.

With a final snarl, Giovanni was forcibly led away from the scene, his protests fading into the background as Mimzy's guards escorted him out. Mimzy wasted no time, bustling backstage and barking orders to her staff to clean up and prepare the stage once more.

Alastor's charismatic facade returned as he turned to you, though a glint of irritation lingered in his eyes. "Apologies you had to see that, cher. Let's hope the rest of the evening proceeds much more smoothly."

"I hope so." With a sigh, your gaze shifted downward, and you spotted his injured hands. The glass he had broken earlier had left wounds all over his calloused palms — not deep, but enough to draw blood.

Concern etched across your face, and you gently touched Alastor's hands. The radio host, accustomed to your touch by now, allowed you to inspect the damage.

"You're hurt," you pointed out, caressing his skin.

Alastor met your gaze with a reassuring smile. "Ah, this is just a trifle. A mere inconvenience, I assure you! My, I've endured far worse during hunting, darling! This is hardly worth mentioning."

"But—" you began, only to be interrupted by his finger pushing against your red lips.

"Worry not, cher. I'll take care of it. There's no need to play nurse," he spoke with finality, as if this was a matter not open to further argument.

"Alright," You managed a small smile. "I am really sorry things turned out this way, Al. I didn't know Giovanni was going to show up again. He's always been like that for as long as I can remember. I told him to stop but he never does."

"No need for apologies. None of this fault is on you, darling. Though it does add a touch of excitement to otherwise mundane affairs, doesn't it?" Alastor chuckled heartily, though you sensed there was a bitter undertone to his laugh.

"Excitement? That man is a shitshow just waiting to happen," Mimzy returned and walked up to both of you, rolling her eyes. "And I thought I got rid of him for good..."

Suddenly, she leaned in with cosmetics in hand, deftly swiping lipstick across your lips and delicately brushing blush on your face. "Now come on, dollface, let's get you back to that stage."

You realize you're still on shift, but the thought of performing feels nearly impossible at the moment, especially with all this lingering adrenaline in your system. Admittedly, you're a bit shaken up, and all you want is to curl up by Alastor's side and savor the night with a drink in hand. 

"Oh, Mimzy…I'm not sure I can really perform right now, love. I feel…" you slowly trailed off, faltering under the weight of Mimzy's hardened gaze.

The blonde cooed out your name, her fingers gently wrapping around your arm, soothingly rubbing it up and down. "Dollface, you're not here to question; you're here to perform! Alastor here has been so kind to get rid of your little problem. Now, let's get back up on that stage and do what you're good at."

"Pardon?" Alastor snapped with a raised brow, his usually jovial tone replaced by a sharper edge. "Well, I don't mind in the least. In fact, I rather enjoyed putting that simpleton in his place. I'm sure your patrons can afford to wait, can't they? This poor dear is still shaking in her heels!"

But you intervened, mustering a smile and smoothing down the wrinkles on your dress while nervously tending to your hair. "Oh no, Al, it's alright. Mimzy's right. I can't just let one man ruin my entire night."

With a deep breath, you steeled yourself, taking a moment to compose before adding, "Besides, the show must go on, right?"

Alastor paused, his eyes narrowing as he studied your nervous tics. The radio host silently appraised your form for a few more seconds before eventually giving in. "Hmm, very well. If that's what you wish."

"Thank you, Al," you whispered with a smile, tilting your head up to press a kiss against his cheek. Your lipstick had left an imprint on his bronze skin, but he made no move to wipe it off.

With a chuckle, Alastor leaned back into you and returned the gesture warmly. 

"I'll take care of everything, doll," he whispered, voice low, before pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "He won't ever bother you again."

Confused, you blinked up at him with those bright eyes he loved so much. "How do you plan to do that, Al?" you asked, but he ignored you, staring at you with that unsettling look in his eyes again.

Alastor suddenly raised your hand to his lips, brushing the knuckles with gentle pecks, causing your mind to blank and cheeks to go aflame. 

Tapping her foot impatiently, Mimzy's irritation grew as the display of affection lingered longer than she deemed appropriate. With a swift swat of her hand against the man's shoulder, she hissed at him. "That's enough outta you!"

Alastor smirked to himself and began walking back, seemingly satisfied with the subtle disturbance he had caused. He was such a bastard, but he was yours.

With a shake of your head and a smitten blush gracing your cheeks, you returned to the stage. The blinding spotlight enveloped you as Mimzy tossed the microphone back into your waiting hands. 

Meanwhile, Alastor reclined in his seat at the booth, his gaze fixed intently on you as you resumed your performance. The audience, having brushed off the brief interruption, eagerly redirected their focus to you.

Rabbit, rabbit! Won't you run away? Don't give the farmer all his fun today~ He'll get by without his rabbit pie. So run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run!

As you neared the end of the song, Alastor joined the crowd's applause, rhythmically snapping his fingers together.

Wonderful, as always.

.

Snap.

The sudden, jarring sound shattered the stillness of the forest, followed by a shrill scream that seemed to shake the trees. Giovanni's hands instinctively shot down to his ankle, where his bone had twisted in a gruesome sight that sent bile rushing to his throat. However, he had no time to inspect the damages as a rustling bush caught his attention. Desperately, the man began crawling on the ground, doing his best to move farther away, dragging mud and dirt all over his body.

"Don't give the farmer his fun. Fun. Fun," emerging from thick shrubs, Alastor sang lowly as he continued his slow advance, relishing in the fear that emanated from his prey. He raised his hand, fingers idly tracing over the red mark on your lips, and if he focused hard enough, he could still feel the burn of your affections. "He'll get by without his rabbit pie."

The dense forest around them seemed to close in, casting eerie shadows as Alastor's menacing silhouette moved closer. Giovanni, now gasping for breath, cast terrified glances over his shoulder, desperately searching for an escape route.

"So run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run," Alastor continued to trail after the man, his axe slung over his strong shoulders, a sinister grin etched on his lips.

Ah, it had been so long since he last pursued larger prey, opting for smaller catches like rabbits and squirrels lately. This, however, was a different kind of pursuit, and the thrill was delicious.

“It's rather unsavory to disrupt a live performance,” Alastor mused, gripping his axe and running his bandaged palm along the side of the blade. "Oh, the misery! Each performance interrupted, a masterpiece marred!"

“Though I suppose you redeemed yourself with your own impromptu circus show,” Alastor snickered, reaching down and seizing Giovanni’s sprained ankle, dragging the screaming man back toward him.

"Good show!" The radio host grinned as he pressed his feet against Giovanni's back to prevent him from escaping. Alastor raised the axe high, the glint of the blade reflecting the crazed gleam in his eyes.

"Now, let's see how this act ends."

With a practiced swing, he brought the blade down, chunks of flesh and blood spraying onto his clothing and skin from the impact. Alastor laughed as the light gradually faded from the man's eyes, his once-struggling arms and legs now falling limp.

“What a show!”

[keferon]

Let there be angst. Let Jazz's world crash and burn as he realizes the old Prowl will never be back. The frustration of caregiving for someone you love, watching them go from being fully capable to unable to even clean themselves, their body failing them even as they are forced to exist.

Can Prowl still even feel his hands? Or can he just see them, unknowing of how much pressure he is exerting with them. Have you ever woken up with your hands numb? Unable to feel them even as you flex them, clenching and clenching hoping for that rush of sensation, of warm and cold, of rough and soft. What if you knew that sensation will never come back, that you will never feel your partner gently intertwine heir hands with yours ever again.

Make it hurt as Prowl recovers. Slowly, excruciatingly. Does Prowl's body even recognize empurata as the torture it is? Or will it heal like a bone that was broken. Sometimes fractured bones will heal wrong. It's called malunion and in order to fix it the bone must be broken once again. Will Prowl need to broken again to heal?

Of course he won't ever be like the old Prowl. Mental scars run deep, deeper than his broken frame, deeper than a surgeon's scalpel will ever cut. Some scars will never disappear, never fade, always around to remind him, never letting him forget.

When he gets new hands, if he ever does, will they ache? Will they burn and freeze, shake and chip? They won't be the same afterwards, even if his old, older, hands survive and were given back to him. The scars will remind him. The suffering lack of mobility, of losing the difference between fingers and hands, palms and knuckles. There could be no blemish upon them and yet his joints are stiff, almost immobile, and no amount of doctor's visits could explain why.

Prowl will survive. No doubt about that. But isn't life more than just surviving. What about living? What about thriving?

Prowl will heal, he always does and always will. But there is something to say when a beloved picture frame is more glue and duct tape then wood. It's kept around because no one could bear parting with it.

So yes, Prowl will die. Maybe not in frame, maybe not in mind, but he will die. And there will be someone new. Someone who shares the same body, the same name, the same spark as Prowl. Maybe that being loves Jazz as Prowl oncr did. Or maybe the trauma is too much and that fragile, loving bond of romance was swept away by the wind, embers too cold to ever reignite.

Let it be a bittersweet ending, let there be pain and hurt that will be felt long after the last words are said, the last picture drawn. Let it be known that Prowl didn't walk through hell without scars.

May the sweetness of fluff burn as it is consumed, bleeding citrus on open wounds. Prowl will never be Prowl again but there is a hope, in the long distant future, that he can smile again and can feel his hands once again.

(Short version: angst and fluff please. Hurt and comfort with a bittersweet and ambigous ending. Oh, I also typed this all on my phone w/o autocorrect so I apologize if it turns out weird and words are mispelled.)

H-hey? Hey Anon? I don’t think I will ever be to recover from this.

[moonstruckme]

Hey! Unsure what happened but I copy+pasted a request into my doc and now it's gone :( Anyway to whoever sent this, thank you!

Request: can i request hurt/comofort with high!reader x buzzed!sirius (or poly!mar whatever you’d like) where reader smokes a little more then she can handle and he takes care of her but he’s like still a little high himself, if that makes sense TT just nice and lovey and dovey!!!!

cw: weed, greening out, mention of vomit/nausea

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 727 words

Sirius is trying to be comforting, but he keeps getting distracted by the feel of your back underneath his hand. The muscles of your shoulders are tight, your breathing stilted and your skin shiny with a thin layer of sweat. Sirius can’t stop thinking about how he’d like to rest his face in between your shoulder blades and kiss an adoring line down your spine. He worries it wouldn’t be very helpful. 

“I’m sorry.” Your voice is quieter than breath, a soft sigh drooping your shoulders as you let your head loll forward. 

Your body starts to list forward with it. Sirius weaves his arm under yours, settling down more comfortably on the bathroom floor and pulling you back against his chest. 

“I’m sorry, baby.” He kisses the crown of your head. “I should have warned you about this. I need to remember to be careful with you.” 

Caution isn’t really in Sirius’ nature, but however unwisely, you put a lot of trust in him. The weed you’d smoked tonight was a different strain than the one he’s shared with you before, but he’d forgotten to clue you in. You’d matched him hit for hit, and with your lower tolerance it hadn’t ended well. You’ve been sick more than once. 

“You’re so nice,” you whisper. Your voice sounds tight. Sirius’ chest contracts, worrying you’re starting to get teary. “You don’t have to take care of me, but you are. You’re so, so nice.” Definitely teary now. “I’m really sorry for ruining your night.” 

“Aw, sweetheart.” He kisses the side of your face with something akin to desperation. He already feels like his heart is going to spill right out of his ribcage, and your upset makes it about ten times worse. “You’re not ruining anything. Of course I have to take care of you, you’re my girl, you know? I want to.” 

He peers around you, trying to see your face. You’ve got that same, slightly spaced-out look you’ve had for the past hour, a sad little line between your brows. Sirius reaches up to smooth it out with his finger, and you turn toward him like you’d forgotten he was there. He wonders if this much affection can actually crush his bones to dust. It feels plausible.

“I love you,” he says. 

You sigh, fitting your head into the crook of his neck and shoulder. It’s not a happy sound, but he knows it’s not meant for him. “You, too.” 

You take his hand, turning it palm up and tracing the lines in his skin. Your touch is so light it tickles. He has a small scar from a failed attempt at cooking with James when he first moved out, and when you get to it you raise his palm to your lips, resting them there purposefully. 

“Can I have a hug?” you mumble against his skin. 

“Fuck yeah, always.” 

Sirius does the work of turning you around, your own coordination not spectacular at the moment, and your arms curl under his arms, wrists crossing between his shoulder blades. He thinks your hands might be making fists. For his part, he rubs up and down your spine slowly, squeezing intermittently, unsure how much you want. Sirius has always been shit at comfort. He’ll keep trying as long as you let him.

“I don’t like this,” you admit. Your face feels warm where it’s pressing into his shoulder, and Sirius realizes you might be crying again. He hugs you harder. “I can’t think.” 

He feels, very acutely, his heart fracturing. “Oh, baby,” he murmurs, “I’m so sorry. I know it’s awful.” 

“I’m scared,” you whimper. 

“I know, sweet girl.” He may well be crushing you now. If your ribs are breaking, you don’t seem inclined to say anything about it. “You’ll be okay, though, I promise. I’ve got you. Just try to relax, and I’ll take care of you, yeah?” You don’t respond, sniffling. Sirius rubs your back again. “Do you feel like you’re going to be sick any more, darling?” 

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” 

“Alright, my lovely. Let’s go to bed, okay? You might feel better when you wake up.” 

You hug him tighter. “Thank you for being so nice to me.” 

“Wrong again,” he says, tucking a kiss into your hair. “I’m not nice to you, I just love you too much.” 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Work-Life Balance

Inspired by this post; in the same universe as this and this and this

Warnings: non/dubcon, forced proximity, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Clark Kent

Summary: a simple car pool leads to a compicated situation.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

A haze of chatter buzzes behind your monitor. You do your best to tune it out as your fingertips skitter over your keyboard. For many, the day has been a wash, but you’re doing your best to square everything before the weekend. With the prospect of one less employee, you’ll need all the help you can get. 

“Hey,” a deep voice rolls through the drone, “you coming?” 

You keep typing, trying not to eaves drop. You tap the arrow keys, reviewing the column of numbers. 

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” they say firmer, tapping on the corner of your desk. 

As if zapped, you recoil from your keyboard and sit back in your chair. You look at Clark as he smiles down at you, his expression much less demanding than his tone. You give a sheepish smile, or something halfway there. 

“Sorry, I was...” 

“I interrupted, I should apologise,” he insists, “Drea’s farewell party, you going? We’re just about to head out.” 

“Um...” you don’t have an answer. It’s optional but you should go. You’ve been working with Drea for two years. You get along. Still, she’s leaving in the midst of busy season and won’t be there on Monday to help you catch up. “I...” 

“Come on. You look stressed. You could use a break,” he says. “The Grill has cocktails, so I hear.” 

“Well...” you twiddle your fingers against the armrests. “I guess I should.” 

“It’ll be good,” he grins. The cleft in his chin deepens and his eyes crinkle, sparkling like blue ice. “I’ll let Gil known you need a seat. We should have some room. Meeting down in the lobby in ten.” 

“Oh, ten...” you look at the screen, “sure, I’ll be there.” 

“Great,” he backs up. 

He walks away and you roll closer to your desk again. Clark is friendly. You don’t know much about him but he always says hello in the break room or holds the door if you get to work at the same time. Mostly, you just overhear him talking with others. He is somehow anywhere and everywhere. 

Your focus is fractured. You do your best to get back to your task but can’t help but check the clock every thirty seconds. Somehow, you’re still late. You save your work and shut down, scrambling out as the new silence of the office sets in. 

You swipe up your bag and scurry between the desks. The elevator door closes before you reach it. You’ll wait for the next or... You take the stairs. It’s only a few flights but you’ve been sitting all day. Your legs are stiff as you get to the bottom. 

You come out in the lobby. Your coworkers are on their way to the front door, garbling even louder than they had upstairs. You hesitate, wondering if you could just sneak back up. Would anyone notice? 

Your name splinters the thought. Clark waves at you and stops to wait as the others continue through the door. Right, you’ve been spotted. You flutter your fingers at him and cross the lobby. He holds the door as he always does. 

You pass through ahead of him, “thanks.” 

“Don’t worry, we didn’t forget you,” he assures as he follows. “Gil’s driving us,” he points across the lot. 

“Right, awesome.” 

You get to the grey minivan as the doors slide back. Several other groups cluster around other vehicles in their assigned car pools. You wait patiently with Clark as your coworkers claim their seats. 

“Oh,” Gil stands by the driver door, “think we’re outta seats.” 

You and Clark stand staring at one seat. You cringe. Of course. 

“It’s okay. I can get an uber or check with...” 

Sandra’s white SUV backs out and Don’s Honda is too small for much more than a few. You turn back, “I can find my own way.” 

“We can squeeze in,” Clark says, “what is it? A ten-minute trip?” 

“Something like that,” Gil agrees. 

“Here,” Clark gets in the seat, “I’m bigger, just hop on.” 

“Just don’t be obvious about it, I don’t need a ticket.” 

Gil gets in the front as Clark climbs into the back seat. The others are too distracted chatting about some sports game to pay any heed. You stare at him. He's big man; wide shoulders, tall, the very definition of burly.

“Come on, it’ll be quick,” he fixes his glasses. 

“Erm,” you swallow. How awkward. Still, you don’t want to make a big deal. You already feel like a leftover. 

You get in and squeeze into the tight space between the seats. He pulls the door shut, his knees pressing into your legs, and you fall onto his lap. You let out an oof and feel around for something to steady yourself. 

You grab onto his forearm unwittingly, “sorry, I...” 

“All good,” he shifts under you, “comfortable?” 

“Um, I guess,” you put your hand up to brace the ceiling. 

“Let’s go,” Carrie demands from the backseat. “I need a martini.” 

The van reverses then swerves around. You jostle on Clark’s lap, squeaking at the bounce of the axle. The well-worn minivan has been through it. 

As Gil turns out of the lot, you grab onto the door to keep from sliding. Clark hooks his arm around you to keep you still. You shudder and try to adjust yourself, only pressing more firmly in his lap. 

You apologise again. 

“It’s fine,” he chuckles. “So, you got a lot of work?” 

“Um, sure,” you’re happy he’s at least trying to break the tension. “Without Drea, things are going to be, er, tight.” 

A pot hole bounces you and makes him grunt. Heat creeps up from your thighs and encases your torso. It’s even more awkward than you could expect. You didn’t have time to think this through.  

“Yeah, I can imagine but I’m sure they’ll fill her spot soon,” he assures. 

“Maybe,” you agree thinly. 

Another jolt. The city really needs to work on the roads. You hold onto the door as Clark’s arm tightens around you. He groans with the motion of the car. You crane to see around the driver seat. You gotta be getting close. 

“Well...” his voice is strained. Are you too heavy? “You know, there’s lots of people who can help out.” 

As the van passes over the lip of the parking lot, something pokes into you from below. You gulp and latch onto the seat in front of you. It can’t be. Clark pulls his arm back and spreads his large hand over your stomach. His other hand pushes down on your thigh. You feel him twitch under you and the prodding is more obvious. 

“Yeah, we’ll figure it out,” you squeak. 

Gil finally finds a spot but there’s no relief to be had. You’re pretty sure you know what’s poking into you and you don’t want to embarrass your coworker. As the van stops, you twist in his lap, unintentionally grinding into him. 

You grab onto the door, fighting to pull it back, only managing to rock against Clark as you struggle. He lets out a long breath and reaches over to help you. His other hand trails around your back and nudges you out slowly. 

You eagerly hop out ahead of him. He groans and takes his time. You don’t look back, instead focusing on the restaurant marquee. The other laugh again as some joke you didn’t catch. Gil is on his phone as he gets out. 

“I’ll follow, wife’s calling,” he gestures you with a flick of his fingers. 

“Come on,” Clark gets out and closes the door. “I’m starving.” 

You walk up next to him, following the rest of the group. Another bunch of your coworkers reach the door ahead of them. Clark clears his throat and your gaze is drawn to him as he tugs at his belt. How horrifying. Hopefully, you can find a seat away from him or the elephant in the room will be standing right on your chest. 

You hurry ahead to catch the door behind your coworkers. Clark grabs it past your head and stays close. You approach the reserved table but find most of it is already claimed. There’s a space at the end of the bench. 

You go down and sidle beside the table. Clark takes your lead again. The bench spans the wall and you’re penned into the corner as he sits beside you. He leans one arm on the table as he looks down at the menu. You lean forward to do the same. It’s a good distraction. If neither of you mention what happened, then you’ll get through this. 

“What’re you thinking?” Clark asks. 

“Huh?” You look at him, startled. 

“What’re you going to get?” He taps the menu, “some interesting stuff. 

“Oh, I’m still looking,” you say. 

You put your head down and drag a finger over the options. As you do, you feel a tickle along the side of your skirt. You wrestle between the pad thai and the salmon salad as the sensation creeps over your thigh. 

You tense as warmth spreads over your thigh. You lean back and look down, realising that Clark’s hand is on your leg. He kneads your thigh as he stays perfectly unaffected above the table. He leans on his elbow and sucks his teeth. 

“Pasta sounds good but it feels too early for that,” he muses. 

What do you do? You look around. No one else has any clue. You’re too self-conscious to say anything. He could just move his hand and say you’re lying. Then what? Besides, you were sitting on his lap a few moments ago. What would they think? 

Clark’s leg moves wide and presses against yours as he hums, “you know, I just can’t figure out what exactly I’m craving,” his hand trails down to the hem of your skirt. “But I am starving.” 

[averycutesalamander]

pls write yan!boothill OMG WHO SAID THAT

ohoho....!! i must confess that im quite picky when it comes to yandere content, bc i don't particularly like the extreme end of the spectrum. physical violence and straight noncon in particular don't click for me (absolutely no shade to people who like that tho, you do you!!) buuuuuuut ..... i mean, im the one writing?? so i can do whatever i want??? so alright here you go :) also check my reblog for.. a lot of rambling lmao

may i present to you: my interpretation of boothill in love, but he has a few too many screws loose. warning for relatively vague descriptions of violence and, uh... yandere stuff. you know how it goes.

In all honesty, Boothill is not a "love at first sight" type. His attraction to you is a gradual, budding thing, built over many repeated encounters. He's emotionally isolated himself, after all - built a wall thick enough to muffle the whispers of his past, smothering it in a slurry of rage and sorrow. It'll take time for him to let down his guard for long enough to even register the feelings you conjure in him - a flutter in his chest every time you smile at him, a spark of joy every time he makes you laugh, a strike of fondness every time he looks at your pretty face when you aren't paying attention.

And beneath it all, a low, simmering greed, a hunger, a yearning; the urge to bite and devour and never let go.

The pressure builds with time, as the two of you grow closer. He visits often, though not so often that it would catch the IPC's attention. You laugh and joke and tease, playfully flirting with him yet keeping a healthy, platonic distance. (He very pointedly and stubbornly ignores the way his heart soars when you look at him like that - like you want to pull him into your bed and let him take you apart, piece by ruinous piece. It's just harmless fun, after all.)

(Right?)

Despite the yawning fractures in the wall he's created, despite the increasing complexity of his feelings for about you, he still hasn't untangled whatever complicated web of feelings that's arisen around you, content to leave himself oblivious for the time being - until you make a joke about him marrying you and sweeping you away on some bizarre galactic adventure, and he damn-near bluescreens.

(He hates, hates, hates that the first thing he feels is something adjacent to the feeling a cat gets when it finally corners a particularly unruly mouse, akin to the thrill he gets whenever an enemy exposes a weakness. A sick, twisted kind of satisfaction.)

His mind churns as the wall cracks, wavers-

...and crumbles.

He panics. He makes a flimsy excuse about getting a notification through his neurochip, about needing to help out a fellow ranger - and he feels even better worse when you believe him unhesitatingly, sending him off with a sweet little "Be safe!" just as you always do.

It's only after he leaves the planet that he thinks about how much you've grown to trust him, about how damn gullible you are, about how often you give him the benefit of the doubt, about how kindly you've always treated him in spite of (or perhaps because of) his dozens of strange quirks. Everything unravels, threads spilling from his fraying mind and spilling between his fingers, and when the tattered fabric settles-

He simply can't deny it. He's in love with you.

It takes some time for him to piece himself back together - weeks of complete silence from him, your texts going unanswered. Every time he sees a fresh notification from you, his heart twists with guilt - but he's not ready to face the music. Not yet.

He comes crawling back to you, sooner or later. He knocks on your door with the most sheepish, guilt-ridden look on his face that you've ever seen, a rich bouquet laden with yellow roses and purple hyacinths tucked timidly in his arms. He lies about why he left - says it was all because of a mission that got more complicated than it should have, and it wasn't safe to reply to your messages - but when he tells you that he's sorry, he means it genuinely.

He's a bit disturbed by the sensation in his gut - that foul, wicked satisfaction when you accept his apology with barely a slap on the wrist, cheerily inviting him inside to catch up. You tuck the flowers neatly into a vase, chatting easily with him as you carefully arrange them.

"It's alright!" you say, waving dismissively at him when he murmurs another apology. "I know you're busy. I can't be your biggest priority, obviously. You've got more important things going on."

(You don't have a clue how wrong you are.)

He integrates back into your life like he never left. When he has the time, he sneaks his way back onto your planet, knocking on your door or searching for you in your usual spots. You get impossibly closer; your playful flirting goes from blatantly humorous to something foggier, something more ambiguous, teasing the line between platonic and something heavier. He matches you step by step, returning your advances with just a little extra spice, his eyes a bit darker and his smile a bit wider.

He tries to be patient - god, does he try - but there's an itch that's bloomed beneath his metal, impossible to scratch, impossible to sate, made worse by every little joke you make about kissing him or touching him or marrying him or letting him spirit you away. The pressure builds further and further, the tension winding tighter and tighter, the anticipation bubbling higher and higher.

(He will never, ever admit that he truly contemplates stealing you away, crowding you onto a ship and carting you off so he can always keep an eye on you, can always guarantee your safety. His paranoia has been building since he recognized his feelings for you; it's taken every ounce of restraint in his body to stop himself from giving into the urge, from crowding you, from suffocating you, from locking you away like a fragile songbird in a cage.)

(He's torn between his protectiveness and his understanding that you deserve freedom. You deserve independence and a life that isn't tied directly to him. He doesn't even know if you return his feelings. But...)

(But there's that nagging feeling in the back of his head, that pestering little voice that grows louder by the day. You'll be safer with me, it says, dark and tempting, bursting behind his teeth. I can make you happy. I can keep you safe. I can show you pieces of the universe that you've never seen before. I can love you like no one else ever could. I can hold you and cherish you and consume you and-)

(He takes that little voice and wraps his hands tight around its throat, frantically trying to suffocate the noise, terrified by its allure. But it's always there, lingering, lurking - because the call is coming from inside the house.)

Something gives, eventually.

When he inevitably breaks, his lips crashing heatedly and messily into yours, there are two paths ahead - but the difference is ultimately moot, because they collide not long after.

Perhaps you reciprocate. Perhaps you melt against his lips, your arms coiling around his shoulders and drawing him further into you. Perhaps you whimper when his hands trail downward, squeezing at your hips. Perhaps you pull away with a gasp, your pupils blown wide, your heart pounding when you see the look in his eye - dark and hot and desperate and hungry. Perhaps you accept his quiet declaration of affection with open arms, returning it in full, your eyes sparkling with joy.

Or perhaps you reject him. Perhaps you freeze like a startled deer before pushing him away, your face slack with shock. Perhaps you apologize, stumbling over your words, your heart thundering in your chest when you see the look in his eye - dark and cold and empty and hungry. Perhaps you gently tell him that you don't feel that way about him - that you only see him as a friend.

Ultimately, it doesn't matter.

...Because Boothill - careful, meticulous Boothill - has slipped up, and the IPC finds you.

After he leaves next, whether that be with a broken heart or a giddy one, a trio of IPC employees pluck you up from the street in broad daylight, shoving you into a dark transport ship for "questioning." And once they bring you to an IPC space station, they do indeed question you - though it feels more like an interrogation, considering that you've been tied ankle-and-wrist to a chair like you're a dangerous serial killer and not a regular civilian.

"Suspected colluding with the criminal known as Boothill," your "interviewer" tells you flatly, idly thumbing at the knife in their hand. "Camera footage, reports from neighbors, records from his Synesthesia Beacon... All clearly show that he has made repeated visits to your planet and your home. We're in the business of knowing why."

Perhaps you keep your mouth shut and refuse to divulge anything, no matter how close that knife gets to your bare skin. Perhaps you break when it begins to slice into your flesh, drawing blood from your body and tears from your eyes and stuttered words from your lips. Perhaps you grit your teeth and bear it, unwilling to betray the man you've grown so fond of.

Or perhaps you cave immediately. Perhaps you sell him down the river the first chance you get, frantic explanations spilling from your lips. Perhaps you tell them that you had no idea he had such a massive bounty on his head. Perhaps you panic when they find the information insufficient and draw the knife on you anyway, deaf to your begging and pleading as they wet your skin with blood.

Ultimately, it doesn't matter.

...Because a distant explosion rocks the entire space station, and the flashing lights from the silent alarms interrupt your interrogation.

You're left alone when the IPC agent flees, locking the door behind them with a heavy clunk. Minutes pass as you fumble desperately with your restraints, your body pulsing with pain; a cacophony of gunshots and screaming penetrates the thick walls, growing louder and louder, your heart pounding faster and faster.

There's a noise just outside the door - a horrifically wet noise, like raw flesh on tile. You freeze like a rabbit that's just heard the panting of a starving wolf, far too close for comfort.

Silence. Your head aches from the flashing red lights.

Suddenly, steel fingers wedge into the gap between the locked door and the wall, single-handedly tearing it open and breaking the hydraulic lock with inhuman ease. Metal crunches and squeals, piercing the quiet - and there he stands, right in the doorway, a silhouette of black and red.

Never in your life have you seen him this manic.

His white hair drips with scarlet and his teeth are bared; his eyes are alight with rage, a shock of bright crimson among the dark smears of blood and viscera that coat him head to toe. In the light of the alarms, he looks like the perfect picture of a killer from a horror movie; violence and slaughter, just waiting to be unleashed. When his gaze locks onto you, there is a long moment of utter stillness; instinctual terror floods your entire body in a cold flash, because there isn't so much as a glimmer of humanity in those eyes - only pure, boiling, ravenous, frantic anger.

For a heartbeat, you're convinced he's going to rip you apart with his teeth.

Then, as if he finally registers who you are, the madness evaporates, replaced by a nearly manic sort of relief. He rushes to your side, looking you over; you don't miss the flash in his eyes - seething, smoking fire - when he spots your injuries. In the same breath, he snuffs it out, focusing instead on breaking your binds with his bare hands.

You're already crying when he takes you up into his arms, cradling you close to his chest and unwittingly smearing IPC blood onto you. "It's alright, sweetheart," he murmurs, soft and reassuring, a beacon of comfort in a sea of terror. "I'm right here. I've got ya. No one's ever gonna take ya from me again, okay?"

(Maybe if you weren't in shock, you'd be startled by his words. As it stands, though, they're like music to your ears, like a warm blanket settled over your shoulders, like a tight hug from someone you trust with your life.)

He encourages you to press your face into his shoulder - mercifully free of blood - as he carries you through the carnage he's left in his wake, the jangle of his spurs and your muffled sobs echoing through the silent halls. Your entire body shivers at the noise of him stepping into some unidentifiable slurry of viscera, and he thumbs at your back in an effort to soothe you, speaking quietly into your ear about everything and nothing.

Time passes in a blur of tears. He takes you to the ship he, uh... commandeered to get here, ducking into the bathroom and settling you gently - so very gently - onto the floor. Or, rather, he tries to - because your fingers are frozen stiff in his jacket, your grip unrelenting.

"You just wait here for a sec, alright?" he whispers softly, the chill of his hand settling lightly against your wrist; the blood there still feels warm to your delirious mind. "Gotta get the autopilot started, okay? I'll be right back."

You're both surprised when you shake your head insistently, your eyes wet and pleading. In an instant, he softens, his heart aching in his chest.

"Alright, sweetpea," he breathes, carefully picking you up again. "I've got ya."

He keeps you cradled to his chest as he walks to the cockpit, holding you easily with one arm as he gets the ship moving. Reinforcements are on the way, no doubt - but you'll both be long gone by the time they get here.

(Maybe the IPC will get the message when they find the scene he's left behind - when they view the camera footage and see the rampage he went on. Decapitation and disembowelment is a new one, even for him...)

(...but he needed to make it clear that no one, no one, touches what's his and gets away with it.)

When the engine is purring beneath his feet and the rumble of FTL travel is humming in the walls, he brings you back to the washroom and settles you to the tile again, gently untangling your grip from his jacket. You're in shock, he's sure, so he's careful to continue talking to you as he wets a towel with warm water, murmuring soft reassurances as he wipes the blood from your skin, handling you like you're glass.

Once you're clean, he messily towels himself off to get the worst of the mess off, then brings you to the captain's quarters, digging around in the closet to find something comfortable for you. Your shaking fingers cause you trouble, so he gently eases your ruined clothes off, his eyes respectfully averted as he helps you redress. He takes one look at the messy, used bedding and promptly decides to change the sheets. (Something within him stirs and snarls at the thought of you smelling like anyone else.)

Finally, when all is said and done, he eases you beneath the covers, brushing away the last remnants of your tears. His heart is torn between singing with joy and aching with pain when you reach up and take his hand in yours, your fingers wrapping tight around his.

"Gotta go wash up, honey," he murmurs, watching you closely as you sink into the protective huddle of the blankets, exhaustion painting your features. "That alright? I'll be fast."

(He tries very hard to ignore the flutter in his chest from the look in your eye - like you're genuinely considering whether or not you need to stay near him, like you aren't sure if you can bear the distance.)

(He also tries very hard to ignore the little pang of disappointment when you slowly nod, releasing his hand.)

He cleans himself up with record efficiency, resigning himself to wearing clothes that are a size or two too small until he can wash his usual outfit. The clothes are for your sake, really; it's not like he has any, uh... equipment to expose - not yet - but he's relatively sure that it would make you uncomfortable anyway.

By the time he steps lightly into the room again, you're asleep.

For a long, long moment, he's struck stupid by the sight of you, by the softness of your face in rest.

Fuck, you're beautiful. He knows it in his heart, feels it in his core, senses it in his chest - you're the prettiest little thing he's ever seen.

(And you're all his, now.)

His fists clench, and he swallows down the thought like bitter poison. (You deserve better than this - better than him. He's a broken man, he knows - a messy reconfiguration of a thousand corpses, glued together by hatred and grief. He could never love you the way you deserve. He could never-)

He's broken from his rapidly spiraling thoughts when you twitch, a tiny furrow appearing in your brow. A surge of emotion nearly bursts in his chest - the urge to comfort, to protect, to soothe - and he slowly circles to the other side of the bed, climbing into the empty space and settling beneath the blankets. Hesitantly, he wraps one arm lightly around your waist, drawing you against him with your back pressed tight to his chest.

His heart soars when he feels you instantly relax, the tension fleeing your body.

(It's fine. This is fine. He'll make everything better. No matter what he has to do, who he has to kill, he'll make everything better.)

(He's not wrong - but he also doesn't need to disable the button on the inside of the ship that opens the exit hatch. You don't need to know that; he doesn't need to acknowledge that.)

A handful of days pass like that. When he stops by a market to get supplies for you, he gently tells you that it's best for you to stay in the ship for now; odds are that you actually have a bounty on your head as well, now.

As time passes, he tries not to suffocate you, tries not to hover, wary of putting you under any more stress - but it's ultimately a useless task.

When you finally, tentatively ask him about going home, his brain goes numb, the world snapping into sharp focus. He turns his gaze to you, disturbingly absent of emotion.

"It ain't safe for ya there, now that those IPC dogs know to look for ya," he says, his voice far too even.

When tears begin to bud in your eyes, it finally sweeps up some sympathy in his chest, his entire face softening. He takes your shaking hands in his, tenderly grazing your knuckles with his thumbs.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he rasps, reaching up to wipe away your tears.

(He's barely sorry.)

"I don't like it either, but..."

(Yes, he does.)

"It's safest for ya to stick with me, alright?"

(Wishful thinking. He could find somewhere for you to stay - some quiet planet outside of the IPC's reach, where you could live without worry. He could send you credits regularly. He could make sure you were happy and secure, independent of him.)

(He won't.)

(He could. He should.)

[myownwholewildworld]

requiescat in pace (a "per aspera ad astra" drabble)

main masterlist | series masterlist | read on ao3 pairing: marcus acacius x emperor's daughter!reader. summary: you learn of marcus' son's death. a/n: welp... yea. can what i say, i enjoy making these two suffer c: apologies for the brief passenger's lyrics references. i appreciate comments and reblogs, they make me happy knowing that people enjoy my writing <3 take care x warnings: 18+, mdni. angst (what a surprise). mentions of death. marcus says "my lady" and i think that should be a warning. let's just assume that this whole series is pure angst, alright? w/c: 2.1k

“Did you offer your condolences to General Acacius, filia mea (my daughter)?”

Your father’s question broke the trance you had sunk into, the bronze spoon falling from your trembling fingers onto the porcelain plate set in front of you.

Leaning back, you looked at your father as if he had spoken a different language. Surely you misheard him — your mind still numb with grief, unable to process anything since you received the news of your husband’s demise.

It had been three days and the gaping hole in your heart had only gotten bigger. Like an umbra lurking in the shadows, you had stayed in your shared bedroom, crying your sorrow onto Resius’ breastplate, hugging the last piece of him you would ever hold. You grieved for your love but also for the life you would never spend with him, for all those precious moments that would remain in your memory as what if’s gnawing at the confines of your mind.

But now, right now, your pain lessened for a second, your brain focusing on something else.

“What do you mean, Caesar?” you whispered, voice cracking in the last inflexion.

The Emperor eyed you from across the dining table, silence lingering and stretching in the space between you. Your heartbeat picked up its pace, the wait almost forcing you up to stand on your feet.

“General Acacius lost his heir at the battle of Sarmizegetusa. He has asked to return to Dacia to retrieve the body of his son and bring him back home for proper burial,” he explained with caution, watching your every expression.

Your heart had now climbed up your throat, the pulse wild in your eardrums. You hadn’t misheard, your father had said Acacius very clearly, dragging the word out.

Mind racing, you fidgeted with your hands on your lap, twisting them in despair as you tried to recall your conversation with him a few days ago. “He’s resting now,” he had said when you asked about Augustus.

Resting. You had assumed he meant that his son was back at his villa, resting from the extraneous physical toll a battle would take on the body. Not for one second had you considered that Marcus actually meant resting in peace.

You had been so blind, letting your own grief consume you, you had not noticed the tells in the General’s behaviour. The feeble smile, the downcast almost solemn expression, the stiffened nod he gave you, the brevity of his response. It all made sense now, and you couldn’t help but feel… selfish. So drowned in your sorrow, Acacius had kept it together so you could cry your loss in his embrace.

Your stomach churned at the thought — the General had no one left by his side. No wife and no son waiting for his return, not even his best friend. How would he have felt in the emptiness of his home with no one there to console him? You at least had your family and closest friends, who had checked on you from time to time to ensure you were safe.

Had someone checked on the General?

“May I take my leave, pater (father)?” you requested with your gaze averted, a sudden need to find General Acacius, your hands twisting uncontrollably.

You needed to know he was… okay. Alive? He had talked to someone at least, asked to go back to Dacia to get his only son back home. You could only imagine his heartbreak, the hell he must be going through. The thought of him dealing with all of it alone… it fractured a piece of your soul.

The Emperor watched you attentively, eyes lingering on the full plate in front of you. There was something about his wary demeanor that didn’t click right away — and right now you were too preoccupied with something else to be paying attention to politics.

“You may go, but tread carefully, filia mea,” was his veiled answer.

With no time to waste, you stood up and curtsied before disappearing from the dining hall.

Marcus’ body was controlled by another being — a non-sentient one. He got up, attended his duties to the Empire, paid a visit to the barracks in the outskirts to train with his army, and then got back to an empty home.

It all felt like a sick loop, one he could not break from. His feelings had deserted him, leaving him be a hollow carcass of who he once was. There was no joy, no incentive to even pretend there was.

It took him a couple of days to finally let the dam crack in the solace of his villa. It all came to be because of something as simple as Augustus’ toy gladius. The one that Marcus himself had forged for his son’s tenth birthday. Little Augustus had been so excited, he had almost hit his head against the edge of the dining table while running around wielding his new toy. That memory had resurfaced unexpectedly and the smile that came with it quickly mutated into a sad grimace.

He longed for something that that was safe and warm, but all he had was all that was gone. Marcus felt as helpless and as hopeless as a feather on the Tiber. And the river was wide, so much he was scared he wouldn’t make it to the other side. And what would he find on the opposite shore? Did he really want to cross?

Marcus couldn’t, at least not yet. He needed closure before he could carry on with his life, if that was even a possibility. Augustus belonged in the family’s mausoleum next to his mother, so they could both be laid to rest in peace together. With Dacia under the iron fist of the Romans, he could retrace his steps and get his heir back home.

His leave had been approved that same afternoon. In a hurry, he had packed the bare necessities he would need for the long trip and headed towards the barracks once more. In the stables his stallion was awaiting, all prepped by one of the ostlers.

He was ensuring that the saddle was properly on when a gentle voice called his name.

“General Acacius,” as soon as you spoke, he recognised your delicate accent.

Marcus turned around, his back bending immediately at your presence.

“My lady,” he whispered, eyes fixed on the straw splayed across the dirt on the floor.

What brought you here, he wondered. The horses belonging to Traianus’ family were kept elsewhere, away from the mediocrity of the reminders of war. This was no place for someone of noble birth like you. It reeked of the musky scents of nature to which he was immune now, but you sure weren’t.

Your hand found the way to his shoulder, a light tap to silently ask him to straighten out his posture. He obliged, his brown orbs showing his confusion at finding you here. And you seemed unbothered about the mess surrounding you.

“How may I be of service?” his question was a trained response, the only reason for you being here was that you required something of him.

Perhaps you needed to know how everything unfolded so you also got closure. Perhaps you required details, something more than just a “General Atticus perished at the mercy of a Dacian sword” — had he been too concise in his explanation, too General-y? Or perhaps you were after the reassurance of a life well lived with your husband, a reminder that there had been light amongst the darkness.

The Gods knew he felt that way sometimes too.

“That is not why I am here, General,” you hummed with a broken smile, your hand dropping off his shoulder like the last needle-like leaves clinging onto a toppling, decaying cypress after a wildfire.

Your admission took him aback, unsure now of what else you could need of him. What else would he have to give for Rome to appease the Emperor — was his heir not enough? But you weren’t your father; Resius would always say you were too kind of a soul, would only speak high praise of you. But was not that what a husband was supposed to say about his spouse, especially Traianus’ daughter?

So perhaps he was mistaken in that regard, although he couldn’t know. Marcus had interacted with you multiple times, in serious and more relaxed settings, but the barrier was always there — he was just a General you graced with your presence because of Resius. You participated in conversation, laughed at Resius’ and his jokes and offered words of wisdom to Augustus like the mother he never had.

But despite all of that, he didn’t really know you. Knew your persona, the way you portrayed yourself to the crowds, but it was fair to wonder how much of it was just a front.

That was, at least, until three sunsets ago, when you cried your loss with him — something he had not expected. How your façade tumbled the moment his perhaps-not-so-carefully-delivered words furrowed through your mind until they took root. How he tried to console you in spite of his own sorrow.

The crease between his brows accentuated slightly, a small tell of his confusion.

“I heard,” you only said, a whisper that made his skin crawl with anguish, his throat squeeze.

The softness of your eyes left no room for misinterpretation, an unmistakable mist in them. About your son’s death, was the bit you did not pronounce out loud.

His chest tightened as his gaze drifted down, catching a glimpse of your fidgety hands, twisting nervously.

Did you feel guilty? Was that the purpose of your unexpected visit?

“My son lived and died for the glory of Rome, Your Highness. Honourable to the end, he gladly gave his life for the Emperor and the cause. A warrior’s death, I couldn’t be any more proud of his sacrifice,” he attempted to put your mind at ease, tone steady repeating the words he had been saying every time someone approached him with empty condolences.

Your hands paused wriggling, your expression shadowed by his automatic reply.

“Oh, Marcus,” you whispered, taking a step forward but stopping yourself before you reached for his forearm. “You don’t need to— to pretend this is okay. It’s not,” your trembling fingers played with the golden bracelet adorning your wrist. “War is a disease, an ailment to mankind, to ourselves and our loved ones. I regret to know that you have given so much for Rome’s thirst. You shouldn’t have to. My father… he asks too much of his people,” you added, the mist in your eyes developing into a single tear falling off your bottom lashes. “Far too much.”

Pain stirred within him, lost for words he was. What you just said was a good outline of his own feelings — thoughts he couldn’t put into words, because they would sound treacherous. Did you really mean it?

“I… thank you, Domina mea. I appreciate your sentiment,” he accepted with a stiff nod, his voice raspier than usual. But he wouldn’t let emotion overcome him.

“I was informed you have taken leave to bring Augustus back home. I came to see if you would accept a few soldiers of my own personal guard to escort you,” you offered, your tone gentle and delicate.

Marcus was moved by your offer, one he didn’t expect. Were you worried for his safe return? That the journey back with his dead son in tow would break him, his resolution? Because he was worried too.

“I am touched, my lady, truly. But it’s not necessary. Some of my men will be accompanying me,” he assured you.

Marcus was lucky to have loyal fighting men under his banner. People he could blindly trust in battle, and outside of it.

“Please, send for me upon your return, General. I would like to attend Augustus’ wake. Unless you want it to be private, in which case I completely understand,” you almost stumbled with your own words towards the end, lips pursed with nervousness.

Resius was right. You were too kind of a soul, worrying for him when you had your own demons to deal with. The dull ache blanketing his heart lifted ever so slightly, your petition soothing and a reminder that he was not alone in grief. You would understand.

So Marcus nodded, his throat tighter.

“I will, Augusta (Imperial Princess),” a promise he would keep.

“Safe travels, General. May Salus watch over you.”

[catslvrr]

you know all my dreams (you were one)

danielle marsh x fem!reader | one shot

Synopsis: Being a superhero involves a lot of saving, like saving people from burning buildings, saving cats stuck in trees, and even saving yourself from being evicted from your apartment. There’s one thing that you haven’t saved yet, and that’s your relationship with Danielle.

Contains: cursing, blood, violence, death, cliche hero stuff

You would like to believe that you are a good roommate.

But when you come tumbling through the window, landing with a raucous thud, all you have the strength to do is squeeze your eyes shut and pray to the heavens that your roommate graciously ignores you. Again.

This is the fourth time in a week that you have managed to enter your room in such a manner. You rely on the fact that your roommate is abnormally nocturnal and is most likely asleep by now.

You grimace as you remember that one time you accidentally crashed through her window, blacked out, and woke up to her grim face as she poked you with her foot. It wasn’t that far off from how she originally found out you were Spider-Woman two years ago.

It had been a rough day. You didn’t leave exactly scot-free after fending off the attempted escape of some maximum security prisoners at the Raft. 

This attempt may have been catalyzed by the recent blackout that you may have caused by fighting off another escape attempt, but who’s to say that’s the case?

Regardless, all escapees were given a scenic swing, free of charge, straight back to prison—a temporary one anyway. Now all you had to worry about was making it home in one piece.

By the time you reach home, the muscles in your arms giving in from the endless web-slinging, you don’t have enough energy in you to ease your landing (which really just meant trying to land on cool superhero poses). You swoop right onto the floor, face-down and limbs sprawled out like a measly bug helplessly trapped in a web.

You’re not entirely sure of the full extent of your injuries in the moment—mostly because of the way your whole body is burning, reminiscent of the building you were thrown into, but you’re pretty confident you have at least multiple bruised ribs, a black eye, and a mild concussion. 

“So, all things considered,” you say half-heartedly to no one in particular. “Not too bad.”

(Future note: You actually also had one fractured toe.)

You’re happily drifting off into unconsciousness, with nothing but the belated, slightly panicked thought of whether you locked your door or not, when three sudden strikes at your door jolt you awake.

Suppressing a groan, you roll over and pull yourself up as best as possible, ignoring the way your ribs scream at you. God, you were in so much pain. You let out a breathy exhale and even muster a crooked smile, even though you know your roommate can’t see you.

“Roomie! What’s up?”

A pause. 

You cringe. Seriously, ‘Roomie’? You should’ve gone with the name you saw on the leasing contract.

(When you first saw it, you thought that the lease was some sort of scam, because your roommate’s signature looked like someone trying to draw Australia from memory. Upon further questioning of the landlord, you were left with the information that your new roommate, Haerin, was indeed real.)

Before you can even apologize for your lame attempt at a greeting, Haerin’s response comes curtly.

“There was a crash.”

You pick up on a slight inflection of curiosity in Haerin’s tone—is glad that despite her nosiness, she didn’t decide to barge in and see you in your full Spider-suit glory. You force out a chuckle, hoping your roommate doesn’t notice the strain.

“Oh—right. I just fell. Tripped over my own feet. I mean, while dancing. Well. Trying to, you know?” 

Your embarrassment grows with every word that bumbles out of your mouth, and when the heat in your cheeks is too much to bear, you manage out a simple:

“Yep,” to eloquently finish it all off. You cross your fingers and hope your roommate doesn’t question the fact that there is no music playing at all.

You barely hear a non-committal hum over the pounding in your ears, and only release your breath when you hear the familiar obnoxious typing of keys, finding your heartbeat in tandem with its rhythm.

There are some things you can always depend on, and one of those things is Haerin’s perpetual typing as she attempts to finish her journalism assignments at the last minute. The incessant clicking of the keyboard gradually becomes soothing, almost therapeutic. You pass out before you can even register any sliver of drowsiness.

And then you wake up to a deafening bang and splinters of your doors ricocheting toward you. 

Reflexively, you flick your wrist, effectively webbing any stray pieces of your door to the ceiling. But you also web your roommate’s face. There are a few seconds of silence as you both just stare at each other.

“Funny how you find me in my Spider-Woman cosplay,” you chuckle awkwardly. “Because I’m not, you know, Spider-Woman.”

Haerin slowly peels the web off her face, face wholly impassive, still menacingly holding the ax. “I’m hungry. Buy me Wingstop.”

It takes you an hour to get the Wingstop back home. Ten minutes was dedicated to a mini meet-and-greet.

“What the fuck, Haerin,” you say with a mouth full of lemon pepper fries. “You broke my door down with an ax.”

“I was hungry,” she replies matter-of-factly, as if that’s a reasonable justification for the insane property damage she just inflicted. “But you were also not responding for sixteen hours.”

“I was out for sixteen hours?”

“A bit of an exaggeration. Maybe around 10.”

“Why do you even have an ax anyway?”

“Look at where we live,” Haerin clicks her tongue. “And you being Spider-Woman just slaps a big target on our backs.”

“Pause,” you raise your hand and stop chewing. “I’m not Spider-Woman. I’m just… a huge fan.”

Haerin’s exasperated eyes flicker to yours.

“I’m serious!”

“Yeah right,” she scoffs. “You make way too many spider puns.”

“Like what?”

“Like ‘I’ll swing by’, or ‘I’m kinda tangled up in something right now’,” she explains with air quotes.

You noisily take a sip of a lemonade you bought from a random stall. “Huh.”

“So,” you chew thoughtfully. “Hypothetically, if I was Spider-Woman, how would you react? Would you tell anyone?”

Haerin scans you, still wearing the Spider-suit, sitting cross-legged on the sofa, ungracefully shoving chicken tenders in your mouth with ranch dribbling down your chin. “I’ve known for, like, three months.”

You almost knock the ranch cup over in shock. “What?”

You swallow the chicken tender too quickly, and have to take a breather because you almost choke on it. “How—I mean, why would you think that?”

“You discarded one of your broken web-shooters in my room.”

“Oh. That’s where it went,” you scratch your cheek. “So… you won’t tell anyone, right?”

Haerin smiles. “Only if you pay for the door.”

You hear the screeching of a chair against the floor, hear the imposing footsteps headed toward your room. You feel something poke you. It’s probably the handle of that stupid ax she’s so attached to.

“You good?”

You respond with an unintelligible noise.

Another poke. “Rent’s due soon, you know.”

You roll over with a groan and pull off your mask. “Spare me some sympathy, I’m dying.”

“No you’re not. You’ve had worse.”

Haerin squats down to your level and dabs a cut on your forehead, leaving a burning sting. “Ow!”

You stay mum as Haerin wipes your face free of grime and blood. It’s rare, but when Haerin patches you up, there’s a tinge of gratefulness that twists your heart, and you know it’s better to leave it unspoken. That’s just how you two are.

You break the silence after a while. “I really need to find a job, don’t I?”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Haerin replies. “I think you should start your own business: Spider-Eats.”

“Like… Uber Eats?”

“Exactly,” Haerin nods proudly. “But you don’t need to pay for gas, because you just swing over. And I’m sure people will tip you because you’re Spider-Woman.”

“Huh. That’s actually a really good idea.”

As you shuffle out of your Spider-suit and wince at the way your bloody clothes stick to yourself, you make a mental note to start designing and coding a Spider-Eats app. And to also do laundry again. You languidly stretch your limbs, trying to ignore the aches and pains.

“Thanks, doc,” you grin at Haerin. “I feel better already.”

Haerin nods and walks out to the living room. You hear some faint rustling, and the smell reaches you first: pepperoni pizza. You can practically hear an orchestra of trumpets and horns and trombones sing as Haerin re-enters your room, like an angel from heaven, holding three boxes of pizza. It’s even from the same parlor joint the two of you always loiter around.

“Wait,” you pull a can of grape Fanta out of her hand and toward you with a web. “I’ve always wanted to try something.”

Haerin watches as you dangle from the ceiling upside-down and crack open the can. You bring it to your mouth and attempt to drink it, only for you to choke and spill it on your floor.

“Oops.”

After that sad display, you both find yourselves in a familiar position: sitting cross-legged on the floor across from each other, absolutely devouring the food you’ve chosen to be a victim to your outrageous appetite. It comes with being a superhero.

“Seriously, Haerin,” you sigh in satisfaction. “I love you so much.”

You and Haerin mostly eat in silence and scroll on your phones until all three boxes are demolished. You pack up all the boxes and push them to the side, flopping into a starfish position and feeling bloated already.

“You know,” Haerin starts, her voice surprisingly sincere. “Tomorrow’s the day.”

You slowly exhale. “Yeah.”

She flops down beside you. The two of you stare at the LED strips (set to red and blue) that you both went to hell and back trying to tape on the edges of the ceiling.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

You offer a small smile. “Nah. You know how it is.”

The two of you lie there for a while until you both fall asleep.

Unfortunately, being a superhero is not all glitz and glamor. You find yourself to be quite the average Joe, living an ordinary life. At the end of the day, you’re just an engineering college student with no job. Well, besides the occasional side gig of being a masked vigilante.

You tend to relish the mundane moments these days, and maybe it’s the age. (Haerin would roll her eyes if she heard you say this.) Those fleeting moments where you can bask in the serenity of a night without any pings from the local police database you hacked into, although often only lasting several minutes, are valuable to you. Sitting on rooftops and indulging in the view that is the city skyline at night—you never get sick of it.

You used to hate this—being human, that is. After the bite all those years ago, being Spider-Woman was riveting. The novelty of your superpowers made you feel competent. Made you feel like someone. (Only after you persevered through the beginner's clumsiness.) Of course, there are the not so great parts of still being human. Like attending mandatory labs, dealing with group project partners who go M.I.A., and the exorbitant rental rates. Regardless, you believe the good still outweighs the bad.

But like most good things in your life, they never stay. How foolish of you, to think that your newfound powers could somehow transcend the inevitability of pain and loss. If anything, you face it more now. 

That youthful naivety led to more trouble than you can handle. That night when you swung past that robbery at the bodega, without a care in the world, unwittingly sealing the fate of your aunt. Any last connection you had to your family was violently torn from your grasp.

It was your fault. And nothing can change that. It haunts you every waking hour of the day, manifests itself as a wicked virus, and its suffocating tendrils latch onto you on the nights when you’ve delved too deep into your own thoughts.

You try to block it out now, but the best you can do is repeat to yourself that it’s a reminder. A reminder of who Spider-Woman has to be and what she means to the city. An unwavering hero who stands for justice and protects everyone. A hero who does the right thing.

You hum to yourself as you push the door open with your shoulder, exiting the shop with a bouquet of pale purple forget-me-nots. You shove your hands into the front pocket of your hoodie after adjusting your backpack, slightly shivering at the crisp chill of the early morning.

You greet the local store owners as you pass by, even giving a hand in moving crates or supplies to help set up shop. It would be so much easier to just swing to the cemetery, but there’s a sense of reverence you feel you need to uphold, and the only way to do that is just to visit as yourself. No mask, no secret identity. Just you.

You’ve just crossed the threshold to the cemetery with one step when there’s a prickling sensation on your skin. As you get closer to her grave, the discomfort only grows, and so you swing to the nearest tree and perch yourself there.

And then you see her. In the flesh.

“Danielle?” You whisper to yourself, dumbfounded. What was she doing back here, after all these years?

Danielle stills for a moment, and so do you. She turns around and eyes the surroundings as if she heard your voice. You duck and burrow yourself deeper within the leaves.

You observe her quietly, donning her own bouquet of roses, and you smile wryly at the sight of them. Of course, she remembers her favorite flowers. Danielle sits at the grave for a while, her lips moving as if talking, but the music blasting in your headphones blocks it out. You don’t try to eavesdrop.

She’s dyed her hair blonde now, and you didn’t think it possible, but she stands out even more. The color suits her—it matches her personality, akin to a warm and inviting sunflower. Seeing her treat the grave with such care and tenderness makes your heart pang. You grip the tree branches tighter to try to steel yourself, swallowing the guilt and heartache that arises. You don’t expect anything less from her. She’s still so kind and loving even after what you did.

She takes out a small pouch, eventually settling down and crocheting. You’re surprised for some reason, but you also make yourself comfortable in the tree. Even though you’re a hundred feet apart, being in the same vicinity of her fills your body with a sense of repose. You allow yourself to believe that you’re sitting next to each other, still friends, grieving together, and you think that helps you heal a bit.

Half an hour passes before you feel a droplet hit your face. And then another. You and Danielle look up at the same time, only to see the billowing clouds roll in.

Without a second thought, you slip your mask on and shimmy out of your clothes, fishing an umbrella out of your backpack before webbing it to the tree. You clear your throat as you land behind her, as gently as possible so as to not scare her.

“Need this, Miss?” You forcefully deepen your voice, holding out the umbrella above Danielle’s head.

She turns around, lips slightly parted in shock, and it takes all your willpower to not visibly tremble.

“Thank you,” she smiles sweetly. You wonder if she would greet you like this if she knew who you really were. “Let me give you something in return.”

Danielle hands you a crochet ribbed beanie, a bright red just like the roses she brought, with a white pom pom on top.

“This one took me a few days.”

It’s incredibly endearing, but you’re panicking at her presence so you can only express your gratitude with an awkward, “Thanks!”, voice crack included, before slinging to the nearest building. 

You make sure to wear it on the way home.

Haerin notices it as soon as you return.

“What’s with the new look?” She asks, not looking away from her laptop.

You set an iced Americano for her on the coffee table, and then proceed to drape yourself on the sofa, feet nudging Haerin’s side to annoy her. She chooses to ignore you rather than resort to violence only because you bought her coffee. She also chooses to ignore how your suit is still wet from the rain outside, droplets of water permeating the sofa. You take off the beanie, making sure to gently lay it on the table before slipping your mask off.

You rest your head against the arm of the sofa and close your eyes, but all you can think about is Danielle. The sincerity in her eyes as she gifted you the beanie and her saccharine voice rings out in your mind. You lay there and reminisce in silence for a while. You end up falling asleep for a few minutes.

Then Haerin wakes you up.

“Hey.” She slaps your foot. “Answer my question.”

“What—oh.” You mumble in confusion, trying to regain your senses. “I saw… someone at the cemetery.”

She finally turns to give you a deadpan expression. “Be more specific. A ghost? One of your many archnemeses?”

“Worse,” you rub your face tiredly. “Danielle.”

Her typing pauses. “Wait, the childhood best friend you told me about?”

“Yeah.”

“The one you ghosted?”

You sigh. “Yeah.”

“The one you pitifully pine over?”

“Well—yeah.”

Haerin lets out a low whistle. “She gave you that?”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “She didn’t know it was me.”

“You should keep it that way,” Haerin says. “It’d suck to open up old wounds after so long.”

“I know.” You puff your cheeks out. “And that’s not even the end of it. I spent forty bucks on flowers just to leave it to rot in a backpack in a tree.”

She glances at the wet puddle you created on the couch. “We can go back tomorrow and get it?”

“It’s okay,” you reply, opening your eyes to the pouring rain outside. You hope Danielle made it home okay. “I’m gonna wait for the rain to die out a bit and then head out again to investigate that weird case. I’ll put the flowers where they belong on the way there.”

“Is there a new lead?” You can practically hear Haerin’s ears perk up.

“Yeah, all the reports of the disappearances seem to pop up in the same area. I just checked for a location that shares an equal distance to all of them and came up with an abandoned warehouse.”

Haerin sits in thought for a second before asking, “Can I come with? You know how the college blog always relies on me for Spider-Woman content.”

“Fine.” You begrudgingly acquiesce. “Only if you get a cool shot of me.”

Haerin takes out her camera and snaps a quick photo of you.

“How about this?” She turns the camera around to show you the result.

You scoff in offense. “Seriously?”

“Is it not flattering enough?” Haerin teases, wrestling the camera away from you.

“I look like a wet dog!”

You web the camera to yourself and delete the photo.

“Stop abusing your powers.” Haerin clicks her tongue. “Go web a towel to clean this mess up.”

“What a coincidence,” you cheerfully ignore her. “The rain’s stopped.”

Like a miracle, the rain has cleared out, the darker clouds making way for the sun. You web a towel to dry your suit (but not the couch or floor) and slip your mask back on again.

“Alright,” you step out onto the balcony and turn to Haerin. “You want a ride there? Uber? Spuber…?”

“Let’s just stick to Spider-Eats.”

“Yeah.”

“And, no thanks,” she winces. “You almost swung into a pole last time.”

“Oops,” you say with no sign of regret. “Anyway, I texted you the coords. Meet you there.” 

You hop on the balcony railing and salute Haerin before proceeding to fall backwards with your hands behind your head. The rush as you swing through the city is unmatchable. You savor the wind rushing against you, the boisterous noise of cars honking and mindless chatter zooming in and out of your ears.

You’re back at the cemetery in no time, and after checking if anyone’s around, you stand before your aunt’s grave once again. Danielle’s roses are still lying there. You wipe some raindrops off the headstone before laying your bouquet down. Then, you’re off again. There’ll be time for that later.

The abandoned warehouse is not too far from the docks, a very typical location for people who are up to no good. You perch on the roof of a building opposite it, where Haerin is already squatting and taking photos. You can spot her motorcycle stationed in the parking lot behind the building. She barely flinches as you tap her shoulder.

“How did you get up here?”

“A good journalist never reveals her secrets.”

“Isn’t it ‘sources’?”

Haerin shrugs. “Same thing.”

You squat next to her. “So… did you notice anything before I came?”

“I did some research. Think this warehouse is registered under the name of just Jace.”

“Just Jace? That’s such a sick name.”

Haerin doesn’t bother to correct you.

“Name doesn’t ring a bell though.” You squint and scan the seemingly innocuous warehouse. “And I’m not picking up any heat signals… looks like nobody’s home.”

“How are we getting in?”

“This is a job for Spider-Woman!” 

You leap off the roof and swing around the warehouse, sweeping the perimeter to search for a way in. 

“There’s always an entrance when you can climb walls,” you muse to yourself.

You open up a voice channel as you crawl up the side of the warehouse, eventually reaching the roof where there is a conveniently open skylight. “Bingo!”

“Psst, Haerin,” you say. “There’s an open window on the roof.”

“Awesome,” she replies, although you note that her tone lacks excitement. “Can you get in and open the door for me?”

“The door?” You peer inside the open skylight. “You mean the gigantic sliding doors?”

“Don’t tell me you’re too weak to open those.”

“No,” you huff. “It’s just that… wouldn’t it be too loud?”

Haerin’s response is reluctant. “I guess.”

“You know what that means,” you sing-song. “It’s time for a Spuber ride!”

There’s some silence followed by a long sigh.

“I thought we agreed to not use that anymore,” she grumbles. “Hurry up and get back here.”

Haerin’s pick up and drop off is quick and easy, much to both of your satisfaction. You asked her to give you a five star rating, to which she replied, “That took literally less than thirty seconds.”

Inside the warehouse is dark, with only some dim flickering lights providing you with a shadowed view of the interior. The warehouse is stocked with looming cargo containers.

“Seems pretty filled for an abandoned warehouse,” Haerin muses, her voice echoing in the void. The silence feels foreboding, which makes you glad that Haerin asked to come, not that you would ever admit that.

“There’s gotta be something here,” you run your hand over the undulating surface of the steel containers. “A secret room, or some complicated contraption.”

“What about that?” Haerin points at a scrape mark on the floor in front of one of the containers, which coincidentally matches the circumference of a quarter circle.

“Oh. That was fast.”

You walk over and tug on the latch, before pulling the door open.

“No worries,” you strain out. It’s heavier than you thought. “Leave it all to me.”

“If you say so,” Haerin says with a smug smile on her face, standing there with no care in the world.

Once you finally get it open, inside the container is a set of stairs that lead downwards to an ominous tunnel.

“Totally not creepy,” you laugh nervously and gesture to Haerin. “Ladies first?”

She rolls her eyes before making her way down. The tunnel is fairly well-kept and it’s not long before you find yourselves in the secret room. It’s a lab, wires running hazardously on the ground, bits and pieces of machinery scattered on tables and filling up boxes, and computer screens displaying complex data and research.

“Okay,” you drawl. “Kinda getting evil mastermind vibes.”

You ruffle through some papers lying around. It seems to be sketches of some cylinder machine with cogs and complicated wiring in it. After inspecting the lab for a bit longer, you both come to the same conclusion.

“He’s trying to time travel,” Haerin notes as she snaps some shots of the lab.

You nod. “His experiments are probably what’s causing all those people to disappear into thin air.”

“What were the statements of the witnesses again?”

“Like the victims were just sucked into an invisible portal.”

Haerin pulls up some files on one of the computers. “It makes sense. It looks like he’s trying to time travel to the year his daughter died.”

You both are silent at this information. Until that silence is broken by a screeching sound outside, one that oddly sounds like the gigantic sliding doors opening.

The two of you immediately break out into a sprint and up the stairs. You don’t hesitate to scoop up Haerin once you’re out of the container and soar up to the roof with a web.

“He’ll know someone was here,” Haerin whispers.

“I know,” you sigh. “Hopefully it won’t lead to anything. We’ll have to come back later.”

Like the true neighborhood-friendly Spider-Woman you are, you give Haerin a Spuber ride back to her motorcycle. She revs the engine once to get your attention, then bids you farewell with a teasing “Race you home!” as she accelerates into the distance.

“So not fair!” You shout out at her retreating figure, swinging to catch up. You’re straining your arms to keep up with Haerin’s motorcycle, but a police car passes by with sirens on, and you know what you need to do. At the last second, you snap your left wrist to make a breakneck turn. Haerin will understand.

You can barely keep your eyes open as Minji nudges you with her elbow.

“Late nights playing 2K again?” The image of her stupid grin floats by in your mind.

“Something like that,” you whine, flicking your head up so your lab goggles fall on your nose. “I should’ve skipped today.”

Minji pulls up the DXF files you made for the project and resumes with the task of readjusting the ratio of some gears. “You don’t even need your lab goggles for today.”

“I look smarter with them on.”

“Yeah, right.” Minji peeks at your rough outlines of the gearbox transmission on paper. Some edges are ripped and it’s crinkled under your folded arms. “Damn. When are you gonna digitize that and render it?”

You slump back in your chair and close your eyes. “When I get a good night’s rest.”

“So, never.”

“Yeah.”

“The assignment’s due next week.”

“Yeah.”

“I hate you.” But she doesn’t. Because the two of you have been lab partners ever since you tripped on her lab coat in class a year ago and knocked over a bunch of her circuits and wires, which, to this day, she still blames you for, which is ridiculous, because who on earth owns a lab coat long enough to the point where it spills on the floor? But, you digress. Her lab coat is now properly tailored.

You’re half a second from drooling and snoring when there’s that prickling sensation on your skin again, and the hairs on the back of your neck shoot up, leaving you with that sinking feeling in your stomach. You sit up so abruptly that you almost slam your forehead onto the table.

Minji’s arm flies in front of your chest to steady you. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you stammer. “I just… need to go to the bathroom.”

You grab your backpack and sprint out of the lab, navigating yourself to the nearest exit. You’re on the roof of the building in no time, in your suit, and you immediately see what’s wrong. There’s a man in the middle of campus, floating above the ground, and whatever objects are around seem to be gravitating toward him. The objects begin to orbit around him, creating a mini tornado.

You try to call Haerin, but she doesn’t pick up. You try to call Minji too, but no luck. Your stomach coils with anxiety. You don’t have long to dwell on it though.

As objects slam into one another, students begin to file out of class and understandably panic. Campus security is screaming and directing people to emergency exits, but the whirlwind only gets worse and things are smashing into windows and buildings.

“This isn’t good,” you mutter, immediately diving into action. You web benches, bicycles, poles, and trees in all sorts of directions to disrupt their trajectory toward anyone. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a blur of orange amidst green, and hear a very distinct meow.

“Tiko!”

You hurtle yourself toward the flying tree and narrowly shoot through the branches, successfully grabbing Tiko. You were going to plop him down somewhere safe, but it seems he had other plans, because he crawls into your backpack and nestles inside it, sticking his head out.

“Hang tight, Tiko,” you scream, swinging toward the mystery man. “I’m going to stop this!”

The man now stands on a rooftop, the debris around him thrashing against the building which is threatening to fall apart. You land not too far from him.

“Hi!” You yell over the deafening winds.

He whips his head around, raising his palm to hurl a rock at you. “Stay away!”

“Wait!” It narrowly misses you as you skillfully duck just in time. “You’re Just Jace, right?”

“How do you know my name?” He falters for a second, taking a step back. “…And it’s just Jace.”

“Isn’t that what I just said?” You mumble to yourself in confusion.

You shake your head to focus on the situation at hand. “Please stop this, Just Jace. You’re hurting others!”

“I… I know!” Jace’s hands tightly grip his hair in frustration. “I don’t know why it’s not working.”

As his ire flames up, so do the winds, dust and small rocks starting to obscure your vision.

“Please, calm down!” You desperately yell, slowly making your way toward him with arms raised as a sign of peace. “Let me help you!”

The sound of police sirens grows louder, and you can hear the whirring of helicopter blades behind you. The police helicopter sways in the midst of the tornado, and you fear for both Jace and the police.

“No, no, no!” You try to wave the police away, knowing their presence would only distress Jace more.

“Police! Hands in the air!”

Police officers begin to rappel down from the helicopter, guns aimed at Jace. He scrambles in fear, sending rubble hurling at them in defense. Bullets fly out immediately after.

The sound of gunshots rings through your ear as you expertly maneuver through the ricochets and try to keep everyone safe. You burst through the combat and tackle Jace whilst he’s busy with the officers, trying to Spuber him to somewhere safe.

He wrestles in your grasp, screaming at you to let him go. Tiko gives him a few smacks in response. As you swing through a window, you release your hold on him, both of you rolling over to catch your balance. 

You lean against the wall, taking a moment to catch your breath. You’re rubbing your head that’s throbbing in pain, not noticing Jace’s sudden silence.

“The police really have the worst timing, am I right?” You awkwardly laugh.

You look up to see Jace stalking toward you, like a predator to prey, a dark intensity in his eyes. Any trace of the Jace you encountered before is gone. You bounce on your feet immediately.

“Jace?” You say hesitantly, walking backward. “We can talk about this…”

“You broke it,” he snarls. That’s when you notice what he’s clasping onto so stiffly. It looks awfully similar to those sketches you and Haerin saw in that secret lab. He lets it go and it clatters on the floor.

“I didn’t mean to,” you try to ameliorate the situation. “I was trying to save you.”

Your pleas don’t seem to reach his ears. He just simply repeats, “You broke it.”

“No need to get so upset,” you laugh sheepishly, hands in the air, discreetly scanning for the nearest exit. “I know a really good tech support guy.”

Your skin tingles. Jace then lunges at you, and out of instinct, you web onto the broken device and you swing it around to slam it into the space between you and him. The device makes contact with the concrete and shatters into pieces, shards of glass flying everywhere. For a moment, you feel as if time has slowed down, and everything sounds muffled, like you’re sinking deeper and deeper into the ocean.

And then everything goes black.

You wake up with a gasp, cold sweat sticking to your body. Haerin steps back, surprised. She’s holding her beloved ax, its handle hovering dangerously close to your cheek.

“You’re awake.”

“What?” You look around frantically, hands squeezing the sofa. “How am I back here?”

“What do you mean?” Haerin frowns. “You fell asleep.”

You stand up and squish your face against the window. The college campus is untouched. “What happened to Just Jace? Is Tiko alright?”

Her eyebrow furrows. “Who’s Just Jace? And Tiko the campus cat?”

You don’t respond, still lost in your own thoughts.

“Did you get a concussion on the way to the cemetery?”

You stop pacing and look down, and sure enough, you’re still in your suit, wet from the rain just like two days ago, and the beanie Danielle crocheted is lying on the table.

Then it dawns on you.

“Oh my god, Haerin.” Your jaw is slack. “I just traveled back in time.”

“What.”

It takes you fifteen minutes to sum everything up.

“But the weird thing is that the device didn’t seem to be done when we were in the secret lab.” You bite your cheek in thought. “I don’t know how he would’ve been able to get it working in the next two days.”

“He probably knew someone was onto him when we left the door open,” Haerin says, searching up ‘If you travel back in time, will you break time and space if you get into contact with someone?’ on Google. Most of the results are fruitless.

“That makes sense,” you nod. “But I wonder why he would end up at our college campus out of all places.”

“Maybe it’s the college his daughter went to?”

“Right,” you nod again. You prop your laptop on your lap as you start scouring through the map of the area around the college. “I need to know where he first appears so I can stop him before he gets to campus.”

Haerin ponders for a second. “You mentioned that there was some research on nuclear fusion, right?”

“Yeah… hold on.” You zoom into a nuclear power plant just a few miles from the college. “The device must need a lot of energy to work. He probably got it from here.”

“So,” Haerin hums. “What’s the plan?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Haerin’s voice is unimpressed over the static. “This was your plan?”

“You know me,” you quip ironically while weaving in between the blasts of energy that Jace is throwing at you. “My plan was to come up with a plan now.”

“And have you thought of one?”

“Not really!” You coolly avoid his punches and slide in between his legs. “I’ll call you back!”

When you manage to catch Jace off guard with a roundhouse kick, he stumbles and you use the opportunity to swoop into a vent to hide. You did not expect this alternate version of Jace to be so hostile. You tried to talk to him, really.

(You lower your web bit by bit as you dangle upside-down behind Jace. His back is facing you, clearly focused on wiring his device to the generator.

You tap his back. “Hey.”

He swivels around so fast he almost loses his balance, but immediately regains it and squares up. “Stay away!”

“No, no.” You plop on the floor. “I’m not here to hurt you. I know you’re trying to time travel. I’m from the future, actually.”

There’s an air of hope in Jace’s voice. “The device worked?”

“About that,” you rub your nape and flash an embarrassed smile under the mask. “I kinda had to smash it onto the ground for it to work. You were kind of trying to kill me. But no biggie, I forgive easily!”

Jace narrows his eyes. You stiffen as you feel dread trickle into your stomach. His fist jerks out and you jump back just in time, feeling the wind from the blow brush against your face.

“What the hell, man?” You pout. “I literally just forgave you.”

He doesn’t waste time and continues with a flurry of punches. “I must’ve been attacking you for a reason.”

You shake your head as you roll to the side. “Don’t say I didn’t try to be nice.”)

“Come out and face me!” Jace yells, his voice reverberating throughout the power plant. “You’re nothing but a pest.”

You silently crawl out of the vent and onto a supporting beam. Once you’re positioned right above him, you web him up, landing a nasty uppercut. You don’t have time to celebrate though, because on the way down, he grabs your ankles and pulls you down back to Earth.

“Oof!”

“This ends now.” He hisses, blood dripping from his mouth. He charges toward you, bearing a metal rod in his hand.

“Really getting into the villain role now, huh?” You joke, voice strained as you leap off the ground and kick him square in the face. “Give me some time to think of a name for you.”

You side step another one of his tackle attempts. “Oh! How about Prime Time?”

The only response you get is Jace surging forward with more punches and kicks. “You could just say you don’t like it!”

Jace doesn’t deign you with an answer. He unexpectedly throws a crate toward you, and just as you duck to avoid it, he gets his revenge with a successful blow to your chest with the metal rod.

You slam against the wall, slumping as the wind is knocked out of you.

“Like I said,” Jace says with heavy breaths, towering over you and looking down with a sneer. “This ends now.”

You can only see his silhouette because of the light shining through from the entrance to the power plant behind him, and this gives you an idea. You muster up any remaining willpower and web onto two pillars, pulling yourself toward it and using the momentum to swing kick Jace.

You both fly through the air and outside the power plant, crashing on the roof of a passing car. You wince as you feel the dent in the car. Jace rolls down to the hood of the car. Logically, the driver starts steering off course because the windshield is blocked and they’re probably freaking out at the fact that there are two injured people on their car.

Your body moves before your mind processes what’s going on—you’re webbing people out of the way of the speeding car, even though you’re still lying on your side. But the car spins out of control too fast for you to react. It ends up ramming into the front of a cafe. The impact of the crash sends you flying into the glass wall and into the cafe. You’re getting deja vu: glass is shattered and people start screaming and running away. 

“Oh no,” you groan, trying to ignore the burning pain. “This will not look good in the press release.”

What’s also burning is the car that you’re pinned under—the heat from the crackling fire licking at you, so hot that you can feel it through the spandex. All you can see is the thick smoke that blankets the cafe. From the shadows emerges Jace.

“Please,” you wheeze, feeling like you’ve been hit by a train. Which actually happened once, an experience you wouldn’t recommend to anyone. “This isn’t what your daughter would’ve wanted.”

“Don’t mention her again.” He digs his boot into the car, forcing pressure on you, and you’re exerting all your muscles in your arms to hold the car up. “And some superhero you are. Look at what’s left of this place.”

You strain your neck to stare at the inside of the cafe, and the sight horrifies you. It’s a complete wreckage. Your eyes zero on blonde hair that peeks out under a table that’s been flipped over. Your blood runs cold and there’s a sharp pain in your gut, like a knife sickly twisting itself over and over again. 

Jace chuckles cruelly at your silence. “What, no more snarky remarks?”

She can’t be dead. It’s all your fault—you were too busy slinging people out of the way to notice where the car was headed. How did she not get out in time?

“No,” you choke out. Your lip trembles pathetically. “Turn back time. Please.”

He follows your gaze and smirks. “See someone you know? I guess now you know how it feels.”

Any empathy you felt for him is overridden by the sheer anger that engulfs you. Your body shakes with rage. What comes out next is guttural and raw.

“I’ll kill you,” you spit. “I’ll fucking kill you.”

Jace turns around and cackles, and you wonder how everything went to hell so fast. You wonder how he changed so fast. He’s walking out of the cafe, to the college campus probably, and as much as you want to grab him and beat him until he’s blue, there’s something more important. Or rather, someone.

The adrenaline from the rage earlier is still coursing through your veins and you use your remaining strength to push the car off you. (You wanted to hurl it at him too but your arms were failing). You know exactly what you need to do. You sling a web to the device he’s holding loosely, then repeat that same swinging motion that you did the other timeline, slamming it so hard on the ground you almost feel like your arm will rip off.

Time slows again, and you find yourself in a familiar position, deep in the abyss. The world goes black.

It takes you three times before you realize you’re stuck in a time loop. You don’t know why, but you only get sent back a few hours to the nuclear power plant. You try everything, anything to keep Danielle safe. You know it’s selfish, that you should be caring about everyone else too, but you can’t stand the thought of her dying. You’ve already lost her once, back then when you left her. You can’t be the reason for the world losing her.

In the first loop, you spray the wheels of the car with webs to prevent it from crashing in the first place, but the car stopping in the middle of the road only causes another car to veer off the streets and into the cafe. In the second loop, Jace hurls a boulder mid fight and despite you redirecting it to the building next to the cafe, that building ends up collapsing… on top of the cafe. Everytime, you saving other people leads to Danielle dying in some way.

It’s the third loop. You’re at the nuclear power plant again, head in your hands, and Jace hasn’t noticed your presence yet. You want to cry. Nothing is working. Maybe this is karma for ghosting Danielle all those years ago. Being a superhero is all about sacrifices—is this the sacrifice you have to make? You thought you would be better at letting go by now.

Haerin’s voice is soft in your ear. “Have we had this conversation before?”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “This is the fourth time.”

“I’m sorry I can’t remember. And that our solutions didn’t work out.”

“Don’t apologize. You’re the only thing keeping me sane right now.” You bite your lip. “And it’s my fault anyway.”

There’s some faint rustling of paper and typing.

“Nuclear fusion,” Haerin says after a while. “Have you tried slamming the device into the generator? The sheer energy might just break the loop.”

“I might as well.” Your voice is thick with fatigue. “I have nothing else to lose.”

You don’t even bother to greet Jace this time, just immediately pulling the device toward you and slamming it onto the generator. The reaction is instantaneous—the device explodes and the generator rumbles, sparks flying. Waves of energy start pulsing out in irregular patterns. It’s so strong that you’re knocked off your feet and your back hits a railing.

You’re knocked out again. Maybe you’re setting a new world record.

Hidden under the knitted quilt, you stir, the thin web of strands barely stifling the bite of the morning cold. Someone is sweetly humming a melody that’s on the tip of your tongue. The constant hum finds its way into you, it softens your bones and eases your heart. The constant hum sings, enveloping you, lulling you back into the solace of the darkness. 

This tranquility is swiftly broken by you remembering. You launch out of bed, blinking your eyes to gain a hold of your surroundings. You’re in a campervan. Nostalgia washes over you as you realize that this is the campervan Danielle’s family used to take on road trips. You wearily eye the photo frame stuck to the rustic fridge. Gleeful smiles and sand-covered faces adorn the frame, reminding you of what you left behind. 

You were known as that quiet kid who had no parents. Any attention you received would consist of pitied stares and hushed whispers. You didn’t mind the loneliness—you were used to it. And your aunt took care of you and showed you love. That was enough. You didn’t think you needed any more love until Danielle moved in next door and changed your life.

She was the first to approach you, holding out a four-leaf clover with a bright smile, saying “Hi! I’m Danielle, you look like you need some good luck!”. It only took you a few months to warm up to her, not that it was hard, because she was so understanding and cheery. She never cared about what other people said at school. She cared about what you had to say, and that’s something you never thought you needed, let alone deserved, until her.

Danielle’s family is equally as sweet, and they welcomed you with open arms. Every few months, they would go on a road trip and you and Danielle would always say farewell with teary eyes and lingering hugs. Until Danielle insisted you tag along, and that’s how it became a tradition.

Lightly caressing miscellaneous decorations as you make your way outside, you take it all in. The gentle twinkle of fairy lights shyly shines through the tinted windows that are littered with stickers and magnets. This caravan was your second home. Inextricably imbued with memories with Danielle, the two of you left no inch of this van unexplored and untouched. Outside, the fresh smell of subdued smoke (bacon and eggs) wafts to you, beckoning you. Your stomach growls. You forget about the ravenous appetite of a superhero.

But you’re not a superhero right now. You’re twelve, not yet bitten, meant to be blissfully unaware of the terrors that await you as you grow up. You run outside to find Danielle. She’s preparing a plate of breakfast for you.

“Danielle!” You rush toward her and tackle her in a hug, tears subconsciously spilling onto your cheeks. She steadies herself so that the plate of food isn’t knocked over.

She gasps out your name, concern etched in her eyebrows. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you shake your head and nuzzle her neck, sniffling like a baby. “I’m just glad you’re my best friend.”

Your voice is so high and prepubescent, which makes you burst into laughter out of nowhere. Danielle laughs with you. “I’m glad you’re mine, too.”

“Where’s your parents?”

You lean back as she tilts her head to the barbeque grill a few yards away. “Cooking up their breakfast.”

You eventually let go, quite reluctantly, and take a moment to admire her. You’re smitten. Her hair is brown, bangs slightly ruffled, and she’s sporting a toothy grin. You’re so overwhelmed with love you can’t even speak, but this is soon overshadowed by guilt. This is the girl whose heart you broke.

Nothing about you gets past Danielle, so she immediately notices your wavering.

“You okay?” She intertwines your fingers together “Let’s eat breakfast.”

‘I don’t know,” you mumble, feeling a wave of nausea hit you. “I feel a bit dizzy.”

She quickly sets down the plate of bacon and eggs, her hands instantly finding their place on your waist.

“Maybe you should get some more rest,” she pouts, gently squeezing your waist. You try to suppress the shiver that this causes.

“Yeah,” you agree without a sliver of resistance. “Come with me?”

Danielle sends you a knowing smile. “Okay.”

You both make your way back into the van, ditching breakfast. You climb into the comfort of the bed, lifting the same knitted quilt so that it hugs both of you. Your body relaxes, for the first time in a very long time, and you bask in the heat radiating off Danielle.

As your eyes involuntarily close, you can hear the faint sound of ticking. You’re unsure of what is to come, but the curl in your stomach unfolds and pardons you, allowing you to feel Danielle’s love. For just one more time.

–

There’s a brief moment where you regain a shred of consciousness at the nuclear power plant, but everything is too bright and you have to squeeze your eyes shut. You only feel another wave of energy vibrate against your skin before your vision’s black again. Definitely a world record.

Someone’s playing with your hair. Deft fingers weave through strands of your hair and twirl it, lightly pulling on it before letting go and repeating. You blink your eyes open and are met with Danielle already staring at you. She’s older than the last time-travel episode, but younger than the current her. You’re still smitten.

You’re laying in her bed, in her room, in her house. You surmise it’s probably a sleepover night. She’s wearing those glasses with a clear frame, so it must be midway through senior year. You smile to yourself as you remember that she breaks it just before graduation by sitting on it. (She forgot that she put it on her seat.)

“What are you smiling about?” Danielle pokes your nose. “Are you thinking about how that one kid fell off his chair while falling asleep in class?”

“No,” you giggle as you sit up, nostalgia pervading your chest. “But that was funny though. Thanks for reminding me.”

She’s playing with your fingers now, head tilted with that starry look in her eyes that always leaves you dumbfounded. Your smile slowly fades. You feel like a kid again, even though this was only the two of you from three years ago.

“Danielle,” you say shakily, eyes locked onto your entwined fingers. “Would you believe me if I said I’m from the future?”

She considers your question for a second. “What happens in the future?”

You swallow a lump. Where do you even start? ‘Well, I’m actually gonna ghost you in a few months and we’ll never speak again, but then we meet, well not really—it’s more like I see you, and then you die in a cafe because of me. Oh, and I’m Spider-Woman.’

“You dye your hair blonde,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper. You’re holding back tears. “And you go to college overseas to study.”

Danielle’s face shifts into something sadder, half sympathetic. “That doesn’t sound too far-fetched.”

“I’m… I’m sorry,” your voice cracks. “I do some really bad things in the future, and I’m really sorry.”

“It can’t be that bad,” Danielle tries to lift the mood. “Can’t be worse than the time when you spilled orange juice all over my biology assignment the morning it was due.”

Your rambling teeters on the line of coherence. “I push you away—and I’m such an asshole. But I had to, you have to believe me. I can’t tell you why because it hasn’t happened yet and it will probably break some rule of time-traveling, but I just want you to know that I’m so–”

“Hey,” she cradles your face like you're something delicate. Like you’re not the person who will leave her behind with no explanation. “It’s okay.”

“I miss you so much, Danielle.” It’s all you can say. “I miss you so much.”

Her thumb tenderly swipes away any tears that fall. “I’m right here.”

But she’s not.

You’re sobbing pathetically into her hand. You can’t remember the last time you cried. It must’ve been at your aunt’s funeral. Your head is pounding and even though you’re in the body of your younger self, you can still feel the phantom repercussions of fights with Jace. Danielle continues softly, “I could never hate you, no matter what. All you need to do is talk to me—the me in your world.”

“I love you,” you hiccup, lip quivering. “I never got to say it in my timeline. I hope you know that.”

“You know I do too,” Danielle smiles, bitter-sweet. “Promise me you’ll say it to the other me.”

You nod, looping your pinky finger with hers.

She seems satisfied. “You’ve been through a lot. Let’s get some rest.” She guides you back onto the pillow and onto your side, nestling behind you, arms wrapped around your waist and clasped on your stomach.

The ticking sounds again, and it slowly floods your mind as your vision fades to black.

“Please tell me it’s over,” you plead weakly as you wake up to the sight of peeling plaster on the ceiling. You force your body up, and you see an unconscious Jace collapsed against the wall. The broken device is just a fingertip away from you. This is the room you Spubered him into while distancing him from the police. You’re back. 

“Thank you,” you breathe out. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Tiko hops out of your backpack and rubs his face against yours.

“Hey, buddy,” you coo, scratching his chin. “Thanks for the help. I’ll see you around campus.”

You pick yourself up, shaking stray shards of glass off you. You web Jace against the wall, and make sure to add extra to ensure he doesn’t escape. You briefly notice the wrinkles on his face and his calloused hands.

“Some things we have to let go,” you say softly to him, even though he can’t hear you. “I need to take this to find the missing victims.”

You leave a space in your heart to mourn for Jace’s daughter, and genuinely wish the best for him. Tiko’s already run off somewhere. You take the device and stretch your limbs, preparing for the long journey home. 

Actually, you have two stops before you go home. First stop is a safe place to change out of your suit and temporarily hide the device.

Second stop. You run to find Danielle. You think that this has been a long time coming, considering that you’ve been running away from her for the past three years.

You’re standing like an idiot outside the cafe, hands in your pockets, just staring at Danielle through the glass wall. She seems to feel the weight of your gaze though, because she eventually looks up and her eyes widen at the sight of you. You wave awkwardly, to which she starts packing up her things in a hurry.

You breath hitches as she says your name. It rolls off her tongue in a way that is so familiar.

“Care to join me on a walk?” You rock back and forth on your heels, avoiding eye contact with her.

Her face is passive. It scares you more than it should. But she complies without any questions. “Okay.”

It takes around twenty minutes to reach your aunt’s grave. You pat the space in front of you as a gesture for Danielle to sit down, and she does.

“Before I start,” you say. “I just wanted to say thank you for visiting my aunt. You didn’t have to.”

But she did. Because that’s what she always does—go above and beyond. You take a deep breath before releasing it. “I’m sorry.”

She nods, showing that she’s listening, but doesn’t respond.

“I… was an asshole,” you clench your jaw and close your eyes. “I said some hurtful things.”

(“Are you avoiding me?” Danielle asks, eyebrows furrowed.

It’s another morning of a school day.

“No,” you exhale deeply. You don’t spare her a glance. “I’ve just been really busy.”

“We’ve both been busy for a while,” she counters, frustration laced in her voice. “But the difference is that we still made time for each other.”

You slam your locker door shut. The spider bite thrums with pain. “Take the hint. I don’t have space for you in my life anymore.”)

“And even after I said those things, you still tried to reach out to me.”

(More unread texts from Danielle. Can we talk? I’m sorry about the other day. 

Hey, I’ve been trying to give you space, but I just wanted to check in.

Why are you ignoring me?)

“There’s a reason I ghosted you. Not that I’m trying to justify it, but I just wanted to let you know it wasn’t because of you or anything.”

The other Danielle’s words flash through your mind.

“I love you,” you finally say, and it feels as though there’s this weight lifted off your chest. “I have, for a long time. And I needed to leave you because I love you. Because I was scared.”

Her eyebrows crease in thought. “Because you were scared I didn’t love you back?”

“No—well, not no! Of course I care about that. But that wasn’t my main concern.”

“How do I say this,” you scratch your head. “Oh. You gifted me a beanie the other day. Crocheted by you, red with a white pom pom.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Oh.”

You fiddle with the grass that you’re sitting on. “I accepted a long time ago that anyone close to me will be in danger because of, well, who I am. And being Spider-Woman… it’s a responsibility that I have to commit to. I can’t just fall in love.”

A pause. “Who said you can’t?”

“Well,” you stutter. “It’ll put you in danger. And I have to put my Spider responsibilities first.”

She shifts closer to you. “And what if I’m okay with that?”

“You’d… you’d have to actually like me back anyway.”

Danielle punches you on the shoulder.

“Ow!” You frown. “What was that for?”

“For being an asshole.”

“Oh.”

“You should’ve just talked to me.”

“I know,” you admit. “But I just felt like I couldn’t.”

“I never stopped thinking about you all these years,” Danielle shakes her head. “I was a mess. I wanted to hate you so much, but I just couldn’t. And I hated that even more.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Danielle says, and the look in her eyes tells you that she really does mean it.

You hesitantly reach out toward her. She grabs your hand and moves it to her face. It’s your turn to cradle her, making sure that she’s really here and that this is real. Her smile is teary. 

“I love you,” you breathe out. And that’s the only thing you want to say for the rest of your life. To make up for all the times that you didn’t. 

“I love you, too.” Her smile is so enchanting and you want to lean in and kiss her.

But gunshots ring out nearby and there’s shouting. You turn to Danielle, distraught. She grabs your phone from your pocket and adds herself as a contact.

“Go,” she nods softly, handing you back your phone. “Call me when you’re done. I’ll tend to your wounds.”

Your eyes flit over to your aunt’s grave. You hope you’ve become a hero she can be proud of. And you thank her for everything. You slip on your mask and stuff your clothes in a backpack.

Being a superhero isn’t all that easy, but you’re glad you have people you love to lean on to relieve the burden. You leap off the ground with confidence, swinging toward the chaos.

Dedicated to user phamphamz... happy early birthday!

Title is from Autumn by Niki :]

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Point of View

Point of view (POV) - the position from which the events of a story are observed.

The author establishes point of view through the use of characters, dialogue, actions, setting, and events.

Authors rarely speak in their own voices. Instead, they assume a particular persona and adopt a "voice" that enables them to narrate their stories and novels. This voice is called point of view.

4 Common Points of View

1. Omniscient 2. Limited Omniscient:

Major character

Minor character

3. Objective 4. First Person:

Major character

Minor character

OMNISCIENT

The story is told in the third person ("he," "she," "it") by a narrator who knows everything about the characters, actions, and events.

The narrator is able to move in time and place, to shift from character to character, and to reveal or conceal as little or as much as he or she pleases.

This type of narrator is "all knowing."

Example from "Godfather Death:"

"He ought to have remembered his godfather's warning."

The narrator has unlimited knowledge, even knowing the mind of Death, and he comments on and evaluates the doctor as he is dying.

LIMITED OMNISCIENT

The story is also told in the third person, but only from the viewpoint of a single character, whether a major or minor one.

The author selects which character to see through, and the narrator is confined to knowing only the thoughts and actions of that character.

Such a character is the "lens" through which events pass in the story.

Example from Gustave Flaubert's Madame Bovary:

"Charles went upstairs to see the patient. He found him in bed, seating under blankets, his nightcap lying where he had flung it....The fracture was a simple one, without complications of any kind. Charles couldn't have wished for anything easier. Then he recalled his teachers' bedside manner in accident cases, and proceeded to cheer up his patient...."

It is only through Charlie's eyes that readers "see" and learn about the patient.

OBJECTIVE

The story is told in third person, but the narrator does not enter the mind of any character.

The narrator objectively describes events from the outside.

The reader is left to infer the character's inner thoughts and feelings.

The narrator knows which details to use to communicate deep meaning.

Example from Dashiell Hammett's the Maltese Falcon:

"Spade's thick fingers made a cigarette with deliberate care, sifting a measured quantity of tan flakes down into curved paper, spreading the flakes so that they lay equal at the ends with a slight depression in the middle...."

Readers must infer that Spade is deliberate, cool, efficient, and painstaking during a crisis; the author never uses those adjectives to describe Spade.

FIRST PERSON

The story is told in first person ("I"), through the thoughts and feelings of the narrator, not anyone else's.

What reaches the reader is subjective.

So, more important than whether the narrator is a major or minor character is the narrator's reliability.

An unreliable narrator can present a distorted picture of events; a reliable one can render events with accuracy.

Example from Aesop's Ant and the Grasshopper:

"Cold and hungry, I watched the ant tugging over the snow a piece of corn he had stored up last summer. My feelers twitched, and I was conscious of a tic in my left hind leg. Finally I could bear it no longer. 'Please, friend ant,' I asked, 'may I have a bit of your corn?"

Readers only know the thoughts and feelings of the grasshopper. They know nothing about what the ant thinks or how the ant feels.

Determining Point of View

The attitudes and opinions of a narrator aren't necessarily those of the author.

Don't confuse a character with the author.

To determine point of view, ask who the narrator is and what pronoun the author attaches to the narrator.

Also ask yourself what role, if any, the narrator plays.

By using a particular point of view, an author determines how much the narrator reveals about the characters.

If these writing notes help with your poem/story, do tag me. Or send me a link. I'd love to read them!

More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ POV

[wandagcre]

under your spell | sam carpenter 🔞

(Mob Boss!Sam Carpenter x Fem!Reader)

Samantha Loomis will do everything to keep the journey of your love story with her floating, come what may. Even if it takes killing an important figure in your life, she won't risk it.

WARNING: dom!mob boss sam, sub!reader, manipulation, graphic depiction of violence, strap-on sex, teasing, 69 - not proofread | 18+ men & minors dni. Words: 3.5k Note: more of mob boss sam! this was requested by one of my favs, @romanoffsbish! hope i did justice with this one ahhh🫣

[ series masterlist ] | [ masterlist ]

You lost count of how many times you tossed and turned in the bed. It’s particularly lonesome even while you’re enveloped in the comfiest mattress and sheets of layers that provide much-needed warmth. You craved Sam by your side.

It was unimaginable how you didn’t want to be in this bed almost a year ago. 

Now, it was nothing but an embarrassing fact as to how your body and mind depended on the woman. You yearned for her touch; her chin perched against your shoulder as her strong arms wrapped around you protectively and how you heard Sam’s light snores that oddly brought comfort rather than a nuisance. In your comfort lies the much-needed presence of the woman.

The thought raised concern for you, as usually, Sam wouldn’t waste any time to join you here. 

Having enough time alone, you got up quickly took your robe, and sauntered your way to Sam’s office. You’re immediately relieved that you put on a robe, covering your sheer nightgown underneath. You just saw some of Sam’s men patrolling outside the house as you passed through the wide halls, one of them nodding in acknowledgment as they saw you through the sliding door. The last time someone saw you vulnerable…it did not end well. 

You rub your arms for warmth. Entering Sam’s office at your home was an experience. You’ve been here only a few times, understanding that the woman needed her own space – even if that concept felt foreign for the two of you. Pushing one of the two doors, the intimidating air welcomed you. The high ceiling, and the modestly tiered chandelier hued her lair. It was as grandiose as it can get; with the pillars and currently enclosed European rolling shutters, layers that provided extended privacy. If it weren’t for her chandelier and lamps in the room, it would be a total blackout as light did not stand a chance.

Whether it was out of Sam’s paranoia or extra precaution of safety, you love her just the same.

When you carefully made your way through her to the U-shaped table, Sam didn't say much, but you figured she knew it was you already. She’s pensive and painstakingly occupied with the files on her hand.

“Mi amor, come over here…” Your heart soared at her tiny voice. 

Sam welcomes your touch with ease. Like a reflex; she freed one of her busy hands to clasp it with yours that hugged her front. Yet, it was her mind that was drifting.

“I miss you, come to bed.” You murmured and felt her soft laughter vibrate against your body.

You ignite a familiar glint in Sam’s eyes. “I like the sound of that. Domestic. Married.”  She turns the paper with a faint smile.

In closer view, you have the sight of Sam in her trousers and importantly, her cufflinks and blue button-down undone, hugging her from behind. You take advantage of the proximity, breathing in Sam’s scent which is mixed city dirt and a particular musk that you love, heightening your serotonin. You can’t help but wet your lips with the thoughts you’re being wrapped into.

“Hm. Well, your wife needs attention now.”

“I’m sorry, mi amor.”

“Hey. I knew what I signed up for, Sammy.” A fracture of it, your mind quips. Not that you minded. It blows over quickly as Sam hums. “Nothing that a few kisses can’t solve. You can start by downplaying them now…”

Your sultry words didn’t fly over her. 

She indulges your play immediately. “And you’re charging this with interest, I suppose?” Sam can feel your devious fingers dancing on the expanse of her toned stomach, skipping over the material of her work clothes. The air rapidly thickened with the brewing hunger and tension, rousing both of you into a familiar pit of lust.

Sam’s back still is facing you, momentarily pulling away to unbutton her top.

“Very much so I’m afraid.” You lazily murmured against your girlfriend’s back as you jumped back near her. Sam feels herself grounded towards reality, her icy exterior melting. You feel Sam’s tense muscles wearing off. A faint smile comes over you. How do you even do that? Sam wonders each time. “What are you even worrying about? Your beautiful eyebrows are bunched up like a grandma.”

Sam swiftly turned. Her kisses soon trailed over your jaw and lips, insistent. 

“I need to pay up first, amor.”

“But Sammy—Oh!”

Sam deflects. Although you noticed, it was hard to be devoid of her wishes as you did not have a choice but to take in her little yet adamant pecks. Soon, it grew into seemingly aggressive and bruising kisses. She tasted a hint of whiskey, burning on your tongue. Letting out a gasp wasn’t too good either as Sam took it as her chance to kiss you harder and swallow your moans. She lifts you to have you sprawled out on her oak table, determined to stir a carnal disarray. With each tilt and lean, the bites and growls that Sam released onto you had made your brain all muddled. You caress her firm shoulder and decide to pay back; you give her breast an adamant squeeze through her sports bra.

Sam pulls back and her matching gold accessories shine from your view. God, she looked beautiful – almost forbidden. Her shiny, half-lidded eyes peer over you lustfully and mischievous. 

“M-mm, you’re so good for me… I had something in mind, would you excuse me for a second mi amor?”

You teasingly ran your fingers through her nape and undid her tied-up hair, letting her alluring black tresses cascade messily, and tugged her hair back for good measure. Sam gulped at your assertiveness, gripping your hips firmly.

“I won’t go anywhere but here.”

As Sam came to fetch a spice to spruce up your evening, you gratefully absorbed the time she gave you. She can be an intense lover who knocks the air out of your lungs without fail. Your eyes flit over the mess sitting atop her desk. The sepia-colored portfolios were noticeable, strung up neatly. Her Glock particularly stood out with its metallic shine that made your heart race in nervousness. The daydreams can be hot, sure, yet if you were to be frank; you’re still taking in this new life one day at a time.

Until you saw another notable profile related to you.

It struck a personal vein as it was none other than your beloved partner and coworker for years, only her papers were marked “CLOSED” with a bright, red stamp across her personal description and profile shot. Your stomach churned at the possibility of her in danger. She was the closest figure you had for a mother. Although a part of you feels worthy of the success you have now, you can’t help but also think you have grown selfish and self-centered. 

The last time you talked to her was 2 months ago, her birthday. A bittersweet smile spread across your features. You even kept postponing a simple brunch date with her – one that you didn’t have trouble with, until… no. 

What’s wrong with you?

It’s not like she also reached out to you. You wonder what Grace thought of your Sam. She appeared skeptical, though you brushed it off knowing that what you and Sam have are unique. Perhaps you left out a few minor details that made her disapprove of it – detecting easily when you’re secretive about things. You didn’t find the point to it, though. You, among all people, were the most aware of you and Sam being from two worlds that happened to collide. But you insisted that it works; both of you put effort and love into it.

Sam is your person.

A hand rubs comfortingly on your shoulder. “Mi amor, are you okay?”

“Sammy, why do you have these files? What does Grace have to do with your business?” You bit the inside of your cheek.  “Is she… okay?” The apprehension coursed through your veins unsettlingly. 

You’re not even sure if you were ready to hear the truth.

With shaky hands, you gather the papers and examine them. Reading them made the coldness eerily vivid as though you’re holding a decomposing body, as though Grace that you once knew was now nothing but a closed history. Your vision blurred as your eyes trail over the personal information. Not one has registered in your mind.

Meanwhile, Sam carefully examined your reactions, silent as you soaked up the files that appeared to rattle you. Lost in your bewildered thoughts, you didn’t even notice the tanned woman’s presence until she gently took your forearm and her lips were pressed against your wrist.

“You won’t be seeing her anymore. Would you like me to elaborate?”

Fuck, you sure hope so. “Sam. This– this doesn’t look good to me,” Your voice cracked at the end and your eyes were starting to well up. Your figure moved in discomfort.

“You’re right.” Sam sighed and threaded her fingers through her hair. “It does not look good… but for all right reasons. Can you lay your back on the desk?” You tilt your head inquisitively, yet following Sam made her appeased with your actions. 

“O-okay,”

She hooked her hands around your legs, making your lower back pressed on the oak table. The robe you wore slid off, but you didn’t mind — Sam did not mind. 

“Good girl.” Sam praised you with her honeyed voice. You felt the familiar desire stir in your stomach. However, it did not stop you from staring – waiting – at those plump lips to further elaborate. “She’s gone.”

It expeditiously induced a sharp pain in your chest. Grace is gone – echoed faintly in your head. Your heart and mind throbbed at the sudden news.

Despite Sam’s monotonous tone, you’re unable to dissect the emotion further as you feel Sam lock your lips into a titillating kiss, her body atop you. A tear rolled down your cheek, Sam did not mind, hurriedly swiping them away with her thumb. Your mind ebbs slowly of its previous worries, tangled in the woman’s skillful touch; latched onto your skin with greed that appeases both of your needs. It confused you greatly, while as despair filled you, you were also throbbing, your cunt aroused again and wanting for more.

“My men bagged her head with a canvas, almost suffocating her.” You helplessly groan as Sam places a hand over your mouth. You couldn’t speak at her firm hold. “But don’t worry, she passed swiftly… least as I could let her be. She was interfering with us, mi amor. I hope you do understand – I’m doing this for us. I haven’t failed you yet, have I?”

You only nod weakly. It was the truth; she didn’t disappoint at all. Your body was still in fight mode and attempted to relieve it by desperately clawing on your girlfriend’s tanned bare back – searching for something tangible. Your fingernails dug into them and rewarded you with Sam’s breathy moans, swallowing the lump in your throat. On the other end, Sam was relieved by your response. No matter how it was laced with sugar coating, she still fears that you will never meet each other by the eye.

“I can’t hurt you, ever. You know that I wouldn’t do something bad when it comes to you, (y/n/n).”

She’s real and you’ll be alright… your girlfriend always had a good reason for her decisions, right?

Sam’s carnal ways did not waver; instead, you hear the rustling of her trousers and how she unzipped them. You didn’t even notice how she smoothly set your underwear aside, your wet pussy exposed to the cold air that made you quiver as Sam was ready to plunge in the tip of her strap.

“The things you do to me, amor, fuck!” Sam uttered gruffly as she parted your folds, the action impenitent and dirty. Her thumb probes over your wet insides, resulting in your breathing growing erratic and your head being thrown back, as she didn't hesitate to put a few inches on you unannounced. “I had fun playing Russian roulette with your dearest Grace. I can hear her terror each time my revolver clicked. If only I had the reins to get messy, I would have gutted her stomach apart until her insides spilled!” She punctuates the anguish in her tone by pounding in you harder, rocking both of you and the entire length of the strap almost inside of you. 

The squelching and the slapping of skins reverberated in her room. You felt dirty and guilty, knowing it was the place where parts of Sam’s empire were laid tactfully. Though, you fucking loved every second of it. It felt that it was a Cathedral and all you knew was to worship and moan Sam’s name — until every fiber of your being occupied nothing but her.

Your ragged breathing and continuous moans were interrupted with Sam grabbing you by the cheek again. Her brown eyes were pierced into your drunk ones. “I love you. Nothing’s going to wreck that. Not even the slightest.”

This was a real woman in front of you, unashamed to tell the tales of how far she was willing to go for you. You never had that in your life – until her, your Sammy. So, you gratefully nod, your heart felt as though it was going to burst in hopes that your eyes could convey how the feeling was mutual.

It should be disgusting but you can’t help but gush more at the stretch even while in Sam’s morbid monologue. “And I’m here, fucking you with my cock senselessly. Do you like being put in this situation? You have no shame, amor. That’s why we fit perfectly,” She grabbed you by your jaw, “Answer me.”

“Y-yes! Fuck, yes!” You wail as the phallic inside of you feels too vivid against your walls. Your eyes rolled at the back of your head. The shame burned your insides but oh so satisfyingly. “I-I love it!”

“You do, don’t you? This is what you deserve. Goodness and me. Your partner didn’t even cry out for you, they cried out for Marly, the bitch from work that they cheated on you with. Don’t worry mi amor, I’ll gut her next for ever hurting you like this…” The huff and panting of Sam’s eagerness had overpowered the internal dilemma growing out of you. It cemented your mind on one thing; you were hurt, but Sam has once again swooped in to rescue you. 

Marly was soon history as Grace was. You couldn’t believe your mother figure had disposed of you just the same.

“You’re always there for m-me… ‘could never doubt you, Sammy,” You choked in moans and felt Sam’s breath ghost to your bare neck. “I-I love you,”

Reeling back to full pleasure, you’ve easily taken it in, both Sam’s strap and the new life you were in. You might as well accept it – take it wholly – no matter how much red is drowned in Sam’s ledger. And Sam? The macabre beast melded inside of her and groaned in satisfaction. Your robe was halfway off, the nightgown almost ripped in half, revealing your skin and breasts that were painted with deep red and purple hues, as you’ve braved through a storm. More importantly, you took her with almost no hesitance and your pretty lips affirmed how much you loved her, even with Sam admitting her sick ways of keeping you both safe.

It made her feel worthy and on top of the fucking world. All of the blood and gruesome journey she has gone through — it was all for you and so, so worth it.

You wail underneath Sam’s relentless pounding that fueled her to thrust in varying angles to make your mind all fuzzy. You feel everything and then nothing all at once, completely spent as your orgasm crashed — the strap still buried inside of you. You were certain that Sam wanted it molded on your velvety walls until all it knew was her.

In your drifting-off state, Sam gently pulls back the robe on you and picks you up, carrying you against her front. You’re perched against the crook of her neck and you want to giggle at her sidestepping, the bodyguards looking away from your sight as Sam is careful to not reveal your current state. It was proving to be a challenge not to moan and simply fuck yourself against the strap, as for some reason Sam kept it in. 

You thought it was the end as your girlfriend placed you on your shared bed until Sam fully unbuckled her then loose belt, and her trousers pool by her ankle. She’s bare for you, her blemishes and scars were open to you, and somewhat they made an appetizing touch to her perfectly carved body. Now you feel the familiar throbbing rising on your tummy once again and your thighs spasmed at the light strain it encountered from earlier activities. Sam deviously chuckled at your reaction and crawled her way on top of you.

“I wanted to return the favor…” You whispered against the shell of Sam’s ear, hands busying themselves on undoing the strap laced on her waist. “I need to have you in my mouth.”

Sam’s stomach visibly twitched at your words, her throat drying up at how they dripped with much desire, just for her. 

“Funny, because I was planning to eat you, too.” A tender kiss was pressed against your lips. Sam moved teasingly as her words did, affecting you greatly.

“We can do it at the same time, you know…”

Sam’s heart constricted at your suggestion. She would be stupid if she were to turn down your offer. Imagining you between her thighs and putting all of her will not to suffocate you? Sam grew wet. She twitched like a junky in need of a fix and her orbs were glazed with excitement and tenfold desire. Perhaps, Sam was rubbing off on you too much these days. 

“Fuck, you mean—?”

You timidly nod. “Yes. It’s a win-win situation for us, Sammy.”

You strip out of your useless clothes quickly. There was no use for it. Sam watches you as if she were hypnotized. How this woman has a nonstop carnal desire to take you at every moment possible was lost on you.

Getting into position was inevitably awkward. It was a new thing, both of you were testing the waters. But given Sam’s words of encouragement, the intimidation soon dissolved and it made you communicate better. In reverse positions, you were met with Sam’s long and toned thighs. Having the strong inner skin wrapped between your head was a daydream much as her face. You can smell her arousal vividly – one that was caused by none other than you – which had made pride surge wildly in your chest. Sam easily slid and handled your body towards her face. 

“You’re so wet…” Sam whispered as she peppered your thighs with soft kisses. Each contact had left you squirming and frenzy for more. “My pretty girl, have you imagined this for so long?”

You were too shy to admit it. 

Although it was very telling on Sam’s end, seeing your slick smeared. Her mouth watered. Soon it will be all over her face. She grabbed the back of your thighs and eagerly lapped on your wet folds, your cries of pleasure served as wonderful stimulation against her exposed cunt. Her tongue flattened up for good measure, Sam slid perfectly against you. Opposed to her confident moves, your movement was gentle and slow, as though you wanted to savor all of Sam’s fluids. This made your rhythm against hers messy and uncoordinated, but it was you so she didn’t mind.

Your cheeks were heated not only out of disbelief that this was happening, but also from the warmth that Sam emits – somehow that makes you flustered. While you’re lost in the haze of lust, Sam tries to be gentle with her thigh grip. However, as it grows tense and firm, it seemingly pulls out a moan from you that makes Sam weak in her knees.

You feel the tip of her tongue dip inside, as though Sam is curious to extract more – savoring the flavor on her tastebuds. The repeated motions continue with the relentless lapping of her tongue, muscle invasive and fast, almost slurping between. It was addicting, like seeing red, only with Sam’s stimulation and breath existing to reel you in further. You keep up and mimic her actions and soon you two find the groove, moving and grinding on each other’s body – mouths barely detaching from the waterfall of wetness. As happiness is meant to be consumed, you do it with such bliss, eyes closed.

Soon, both of you convulsed at the rush of release. Hurriedly, you lapped on Sam’s cum like it was the last thing you’ll ever drink. Sam was more brutal, and practically buried herself in your pussy until you had to push her away. Your fingers dug into the soft flesh of her thighs, both cunts were tender and as Sam did, your breath was heaving as well. A sheer sweat covered both of your bodies. Fuck, you can’t believe you’ve just done that.

This was fucking heaven.

Sam was the first to get up. You were spent and your clothes were gone, meant for replacement again. She giggled at your adorable sight, a chaste kiss laced with strong remnants of your taste greeted your mouth – ending it with you in her arms, lulled by Sam's heartbeat against your bare chest, and open-mouthed kisses on your tired jaw.

A triumphant smile makes its way to her devious features and whispers I love you against your forehead.

She has done it again. You barely knew what rattled you moments earlier, instead, your mind was filled with the woman and how you can’t live without her.

do not repost/translate on other sites. © wandagcre

[mazikeenhyde]

Oh Baby... Pain is Pleasure - Part Four

POLY JUDGMENT DAY X READER (WRESTLER) 

Y/W/N – Your Wrestling Name 

WARNING – THESE WARNINGS COVER ALL PARTS OF THIS FICTION- THEY MAY NOT BE SPECIFIC TO THIS PARTICULAR PART!- 

WARNING – SMUT,  POLY RELATIONSHIPS, BDSM, SPANKING, VIOLENT REFRENCES, BLOOD, INJURY, ABUSE (CONSENTUAL) KIDKNAPPING/ABUDCTION

Tag List - @babybatlover

Oh Baby…Pain is Pleasure – Part Four

What felt like an eternity laying on the cold floor of the van was, in reality, just a few minutes. My senses were all a mess, you see it all the time in films; people counting the number of turns and times to travel a distance, well I could barely keep myself focused on the situation in hand. I worried to much about the others, they would be getting so worried, Rhea was a little… over sensitive when it came to our safety. If any of us were late home, sick, injured or all the above she was like firecracker at new year’s. Fussing and fretting in every direction and over every little thing. Sometimes it was a little overwhelming, but I loved her for it. 

Out of nowhere, the vans brakes hit hard as it skidded across the country lanes gritted road into a near lay by. I felt the cold chill flood the inside of the van as the backdoors flung open and someone grabbed me by my ankles, dragging me out. I could of screamed, but what was it going to do? How would it have made a difference? At least when I scream at home, I get some enjoyment from it. 

I guess when you consider all the bondage nights we have shared together, Priest and Finn being the ever instigators and professionals when it comes to BDSM, you learn a thing or two about ropes… 

About knots…

and how to untie them. 

These hooded fuckers had no idea I had loosened my bindings the second the van doors closed, but I was intrigued to see where this was going. Whether they liked it or not, I knew who they were. The side road abduction seemed more like a game then an actual threat. Call it the kinky side of me if you like, I was into it. 

I felt my feet leave the floor as I was thrown over someone’s shoulder and they were quick to make a fast pace walk away, abandoning the vehicle. The stale straw smell filled my nostrils, like an unwashed scarecrow left out through a winter night, the sun now baking off the morning dew that hung heavy on their hat. Hearing a heavy set of what sounded like old rickety wooden doors close behind me I was thrown backwards into a chair, my face still fully covered by a hood and those scarecrow style footsteps that had bought me here slowly backed away. 

A softer style gently made their way forward, pulling off the hood that covered my face and glaring back into my soul. I was quick to scan around the room. 

An old worn-down barn, torn apart and battered by many harsh winters with barley a solid wall intact. Opposite me stood a woman, dressed in a tattered white dress, and fractured China mask, her hair unwashed and unkept. She made not a single sound as she crooked her neck in my direction. Next to her, a few steps back stood an ever-growing atrocious figure, caught in the shadows of this ruin you could just make out the rabid fur across the ears. 

Then, out from of the corner of my eye, from the darkness he stepped forward. The bone across the creature’s face glistened in the bask of the sunset. Leaning down into my face it grinned, and I, in turn, smiled back. 

“Hi Dex…” I offered as he removed the mask and tutted his finger in my face. 

“tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk…. Y/N Y/N Y/N” He repeated, beginning to pace around the seat I was thrown on, his voice faking a cheerful tone. 

“Where you been girl, you didn’t forget about us did you? You didn’t forget… about little old us?” He stood in front raising his arms as the other two stepped forward. “You didn’t forget…” He lowered his head adjourning a menacing toothy grin as he looked back up directly into my eyes, “About your deal?” 

“What is this, Dex? What’s with the whole Kidnapping routine, it’s not very funny” I stated, shuffling in my seat as I tried to free up my hands from behind me, stuck on the final hitch in the knot. 

“You. Didn’t. Answer. The. Question. Y/N.” Dexter’s voice was low, monotone, and full of spite. “You made a deal…”

“A deal’s a deallllll” a higher pitched voice came from behind him, her face still emotionless but her voice full of entertainment at the situation I was caught up in. I’d always been a gambling girl, but the odds were not in my favor here.

“I didn’t make it with you though? Did i!” I spat out my words as I managed to free my hands. Pushing myself up and off the chair seat I went to leap up toward the three of them, but two hands clamped tightly onto me, one around my forehead and the other across my mouth, keeping my silent. 

Shit. 

That leather smell was all too familiar, that, that green and blue tinged skin tone, that cackling laughter of misfortune. My eyes filled with terror as my air supply became limited and in turn, pulling me back into the chair; my hands had been locked in place by my own body weight. I felt…his…breath against the nape of my neck, warm and humid as he laughed under his words. That indescribable laughter, the true stuff of nightmares. 

“A deal… is a deal y/n” His words were mixed in with absurdity as he leant in to smell the distress painted across my body in sweat, my whole form nervously shivering where it sat.

“And a debt…is a fucking debt. Dead or alive. The price must be paid… and we are here to collect.” He released his grasp around me as his hands snaked back through the chair and I found my hands had been re tied behind me, only better this time. There was no escape. 

Moving into full view for the first time, in an awful long time, there he was. 

Uncle Howdy.

Pacing around in a circle he twirled his wrists as he laughed mechanically to himself, by his feet perched in the dirt was Huskus too, ever as creepy as the others. Yet always seemed to be a little pet to his master.  

“Let. Me. Go!” I spat out each word in both fury and fear. “My deal, wasn’t with you either Howdy!” 

Before I could catch my breath back, Huskus almost threw himself backwards to be nearer the other two as Howdy ran straight at me, grabbing the tops of my arms and pushing the chair back onto its edges, as he closed the gap between us to leave millimeters between my face and his. His voice was enriched with the fury of an army and every word filled with hatred. 

“YOU FORGET YOUR PLACE Y/N” He spat through gritted teeth. “HE MAY HAVE LEFT THIS REALM BUT DON’T FORGET WHOSE WORLD YOU LIVE IN!” His eyes looked down and I followed, only now realizing just where I was sitting. 

“Even in death, he lives on. Even in the living days of now, the ghosts of our past come back to haunt us.” Howdy smiled once more returning his gaze to meet mine as he began pushing the infamous rocking chair back and forth. Throwing my head to the side at the sound of a matchstick strike I glanced at Abby, the witch, light that haunting lantern and the atmosphere in the room felt very dark in the split of a second. Dexter leant into the glow of the dim light and smiled, snatching his face to stare back at me. 

Howdy’s hand then came up to mine as his fingers turned my chin back to face him. 

“He… set the price. You agreed to the terms, The dice were cast, and you got what you wanted.”

“But I will lose what I have…” I offered my plea, but it fell on deaf ears. 

Uncle Howdy stood, straightening himself and shrugged his shoulders. 

“We don’t choose the cards we are dealt y/n, but we decide how to play the game. It’s a gambling world full of sinners, either win or lie to succeed, and we pay our debts to the ferry man on the way out. But you never cheat. There’s always… Witnesses.” He looked back at me at winked.  

“It was you… it was from you” I recalled that text. 

“Did you work it out yet?” How is Miss Morgan” Uncle Howdy smirked as his little friends walked forward to lurk at his side. 

“I don’t know what you are talking about. Work what out?” I played the fool, in regards to Liv anyway. 

Howdy snapped his fingers and his little witch stepped forward, scribbling with her chalks across the dirt floor with the words ‘LOCKER WITNESSES’, looking up to me and smiling she was quick to run her hand over and rearrange the letters. 

L.O.C.K.E.R    W.I.T.N.E.S.S.E.S

……............................................................................

S.                                K.                                L.

E.                                N.                               I. 

C.                               O.                               E.

R.                               W.                              S. 

E.

T.

S. 

…...................................................................................

I couldn’t believe it, how had I not noticed that before. It was a fucking anagram, it was her, Abby, she had sent me that message just after Liv had text me while I was training with Finn. 

“Our secrets birth the lies that entangle us, until we suffocate, they restrict our souls with their never-ending depths of deception until we choose to reveal them. We set the truth free…” Howdy smiled, knowing full well I would never let that happen. 

“So here’s your choice Y/N… reveal your secrets to those you love most, set those lies freeeeeeeee….” He laughed as his words fell into a whisper by the end, that laughter was torturous and never ending. 

“Or… pay your debt” He stopped, arms stretched out wide, stating the terms blankly. 

“How…?” I questioned. 

“WrestleMania… The witch cashes in, you throw the match.” He put it out there, plain and simple.

“I can’t…” I whimpered, “It would break them, they’ve all worked so hard to get me there. Ive worked ridiculously hard to get myself to this point! YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME!!” My heart was breaking as i screamed... "Please..."  

“Secrets don’t stay hidden forever y/n… those are the terms. That is the price.” And with that Uncle Howdy grabbed the lantern and blew it out, his laughter was the last thing I heard before something caught me around the side of the head, I felt myself crash onto the dirt floor in a heap before everything went pitch black. 

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

My eyes fluttered in a daze as I could hear the sound of panicked voices around me, the ground had returned to the normality of the grit on a public road. Though everything surrounding felt like a jumbled mess and nothing sounded quite right, but I recognized those voices. Those soft, loving, gentle voices. 

“Mi Amor..”

“Lass? Can you hear me?”

“Bunny? Bunny!?” 

“Mi Vida, estás bien? 

It was all a bit like a dream as I sat up, had it really happened? Was I just dehydrated? My head hurt for sure, maybe I could just pass it off as dehydration. Then they wouldn’t worry so much, but I was struggling to ground myself and form a real sentence. Without hesitation, Damian had scooped me up into his arms and taken me inside.

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

That night I lay in between them all as they slept, wide awake and full of a million questions and a thousand more fears on top. I had no idea what to do, what was going to happen and how I was going to escape this mess. It was my mess, and they were right, secrets don’t stay hidden forever. 

Speaking of secrets, I pulled out my phone from under my pillow and turned my head to see Damien’s face, gently breathing on me as he slept. God how I loved him, my gentle giant in all his glory. It pained my heart to think of the hurt that was headed their way, because one way or another someone was going to get hurt. But I’d sooner die before I let it be them, and they can never find out. Not about her. 

I opened up my messages seeing the one I now knew was from Abby and closed it, to open instead the one from Liv. Taking a deep breath, I replied to her…

“The Wyatts know…” I clicked send, but as if like fate met fortune, like the nightmare needed its finishing touch, my gentle giant spoke…

“Know what y/n?” Damian locked eyes with me, and my face gave it all away. 

Now… I was well and truly fucked. 

He sat up, pulling me up with him. 

“What are you playing at, you don’t go around messing with the Wyatts…” 

I was frozen on the spot, how was I going to get out of this. 

Damien pulled me in to close the gap and with a tight grip around the back of my neck he was plain and clear with his words. 

“What the fuck have you done…?” 

TO BE CONTINUED ...

Part 5??

[morganas-pendragons]

My Word (Of The Lady of Eregion) | Celebrimbor

Post episode 5. Celebrimbor is beginning to come apart at the seams, and you are not having it.

tag: @thesolarangel @erebusbabylon @sailon-ishmael @ladyoflindon @pentaghasm @thatlittlered

Merry Christmas to those who celebrate! I’m hoping to write some more tomorrow!

***

You know something is wrong when Celebrimbor comes into the chamber you’ve taken rest in, expression contorted by fear and hands trembling uncontrollably at his sides.

“Celebrimbor?” Your voice draws him out of his panic, but you cannot help exiting the bed to settle by his side and cradle his hands in your own, pressing your lips to his knuckles. “What has happened?”

He has been swathed in darkness since the arrival. The Harbinger never ceases. It torments him, He torments him, in every moment.

Celebrimbor can only find safety with you. With you, it is quiet.

With you, there is no torment.

He is so tempted not to tell you. To spare you a glimpse into his fracturing mind, to simply indulge his selfish desires of hiding from the responsibility that Annatar has placed upon him.

Part of you wanted this, remember?

“Celebrimbor,” You repeat. He takes that moment to properly look at you: You are wearing a shift that is nearly sheer and sits nicely on your shoulders, hair loose around your face and far too much skin for him to ache to touch. Celebrimbor dares not to allow his thoughts to wander. He may be selfish, but what just happened in the forge must not be swept under the rug. “You did not make me your Lady unofficially without giving thought to the depths of the trust between yourself and I. Do not keep from me. What is wrong?”

It has been a long time since he has felt that helpless.

“Annatar wishes to make more rings.” Celebrimbor’s breathing gradually slows as he watches you separate each of his fingers, pressing a kiss to his fingertips while never daring to tear your eyes from his. You have been utilizing touch for quite some time now, but it has a completely different hold on Celebrimbor now. It is grounding. It clears the haze that has taken hold over his mind. “I refused.”

“I am failing to understand what has warranted such a reaction then.”

“He is to make them anyway. Rings for Men, as they were most susceptible to Morgoth’s influence.”

Your fingers absently trail across his jawline, eyes softening as Celebrimbor leans into the warmth of your palm. “That is absurd,” You snap sharply, not at him, but at the situation and the gall Annatar has to even attempt such a thing. “He cannot perform such an act without you. You are the Ringmaker.”

“Even the Ringmaker does not have the final say when the Valar are involved.” He says. Celebrimbor sighs and pulls you closer to him, practically pressed against every edge and crevice of his body so you cannot be pried away, so you are in every part of him.

You are tempted to continue to argue, to convince him of the truth that seems so clear to you but so muddled to the others who have been brought under Annatar’s influence.

“Come, my love.” You say softly. You try to hide the concern in your voice as you smooth your hands over his shoulders. “Let us be rid of these.”

Celebrimbor dipped his head and lifted his arms to allow you to remove his apron and robes. Once he was dressed in his night attire, he lifted his head high enough to find your face inches away from his own, bright eyes gleaming in the moonlight of the bedroom as they shift down to his lips.

He crosses the distance first. Kissing you is like breathing the air that his lungs have been so deprived of, inhaling that sweet, comforting feeling of safety and love that dwells within the very heart of you.

“My dear, you bring me such peace.” Celebrimbor says softly. You open your mouth to reply and find yourself distracted by the rustle of footsteps outside the door. Light, barely perceptible, but undoubtedly belonging to one of the remaining smiths returning to the forge. “I believe it is time for me to retire. Will you join me?”

Something heavy settles in your stomach as your eyes shift back to the hallway. “I must take care of something first,” You murmur softly. “Settle into the bed. I will join you once the hour of the Wolf has fallen.”

“Wait,” His fingers wrap around your wrist as you grasp your robes in the other hand. “Do you remember the promise I made to you?”

“That you would always remain. Never to leave, never to be taken away. That I would be taken care of.”

Celebrimbor’s eyes gleam in the moonlight as he nods. Something settles between the two of you, like a weight that threatens to widen the gap that has been created by Annatar’s arrival. It scares you. You should be coming together, not further apart.

“I will do everything in my power to keep it,” Celebrimbor says. “Hurry back. I will be waiting.”

You are out the door before he can say anything else. You cannot bear to look at him again, not with the unease settling into your stomach as you soundlessly head down the hall toward its source.

***

After calming Celebrimbor within your chambers, you stride out the main door toward the forge where you know Annatar to be. The Lord of Gifts is in conversation with Mirdania. Your dearest friend, clever as she is, is also incredibly impressionable. You refuse to let her be influenced by the likes of the snake who dwells within the nest.

“Mirdania.”

Mirdania is also one of the few elves who is aware that Celebrimbor intends to propose to you, to officially give you the title of Lady of Eregion. Celebrimbor has bestowed this title upon you himself, but the marriage between you and the Greatest of the Elven Smiths would solidify this arrangement.

“My Lady!” She exclaims. The younger elleth jumps away from Annatar as if he has burned her, cheeks tinging pink as she crosses the forge to meet you. “My apologies. I did not notice the hour.”

Your eyes slowly shift behind her to Annatar. “You are free to return to your home for the evening, dear friend. Be at peace.” Mirdania bows lowly in reply and scurries out of the forge, leaving you alone with Annatar. Despite the heat that radiates from the fires within, you cannot help but feel the bone-deep chill that resides within. “For the time you require of him before and after the hour of the Wolf, Lord Celebrimbor will be otherwise indisposed.”

“And why is it you delivering this information?”

“As is the role that was bestowed on me, I deliver Lord Celebrimbor’s correspondence and see to matters of the city,” You reply. You still will not grant him the satisfaction of being under his spell, of meeting his eyes and granting him basic respect. “Which is what you are.”

If anything, Annatar is quite impressed at how you seem to exude a confidence and defiance against all he has done to warp the reality around him. To turn Celebrimbor and the elves against one another. To make them distrust their Lord.

You are the only one not affected.

“And under the authority of whom do you speak?”

Cold, unyielding grey eyes meet his as you turn around to acknowledge him. “By the word of The Lady of Eregion, my Lord,” You say sharply. “My word holds as much claim as his does. And as that is so, may I also dismiss you for the eve, as the hour is late and the rings are of no importance as of right now. Goodnight.”

Your robes sweep against the floor as you turn to depart and return to where you left Celebrimbor. Your heart lays fast asleep in a bed that is not his own, breathing deep and dreams peaceful as you climb in behind him and press your face into his hair.

Celebrimbor has never broken a promise to you since you arrived in Eregion.

You do not believe he will start now.

[stellar-skyy]

Hiii congrats on 200!!

May I have hot honey & vanilla tea with lyney? Extra fluffy if you can 😌

“lyney! i have an order for lyney, a honey and vanilla tea!”

☆ — if you're craving a drink, make sure to stop by the teashop!

i. SUMMARY: Lyney finds his partner crying, and reminds them they are loved. ii. CWS & NOTES: crying. reader has a bad day and lyney comforts them. lyney x gn!reader. hurt/comfort & fluff. established relationship. 1k words. iii. A/N: aly!! thank you for your order!! i think i bent the prompt a little bit, so this came out a bit more hurt/comfort than strictly fluff, but i hope you enjoy regardless!

Lyney slid his key into the lock, turning it with a click. The noise was loud in the quiet of the night, abruptly tearing through the silence. He paused, letting the night settle once more, before pushing the door open.

“[Name]! I’m back,” Lyney called, hooking his finger under the brim of his hat to tug it off his head. It was tossed unceremoniously onto the table, along with his gloves. His boots were next, stacked beside the door in a row with the rest of the shoes.

“Hello…?” He tried again, gently pushing open a door to peer into a deserted living room.

There wasn’t any sign of life in the room, but there were traces. The pillows were askew, scattered above a small dent in the couch where someone had left too quickly to smooth it back down. A mug rested on the side table—his mug, Lyney noted, not theirs—with the residue of a drink long gone still lingering at the bottom. There was a strange silence in the air, which unnerved him more than he would like to admit. At this time there was always something; distant beats of music coming from somewhere in the house, or the unintelligible sound of chatter from the television two rooms over, or even just quiet thumps and echoes that reminded him of another presence within the house.

“My dear, are you home?” Lyney called out again. The sound of his voice reverberated across the walls, with no answering call to meet him. His brow furrowed further, an uneasy feeling seizing him tightly. It wrapped itself around his lungs, squeezing tighter with every step out of the living room and through the hall.

A light glowed dimly from under the final door of the hallway, their shared bedroom. Straining his ears, he could hear a low, muffled sound from behind it. A smile graced his lips, coated in relief, and the tension slowly eased itself away from his chest, if only by a fraction. They were in the bedroom, it seemed; they had simply turned in early. There wasn’t a need to worry at all.

Still, Lyney was ill at ease. It was late in the night, far later than any reasonable person would be awake for, but they always waited for him on nights like these. Their face filled his thoughts in every step of the walk home, idle wonderings of whether they had made dinner yet, or how they were spending their evening.

Lyney gripped the doorhandle, swinging the door open with a touch too much force. The bedroom was dark, save for the light of a bedside lamp dimly illuminating a curled-up figure on the bed.

“Ah, there you are! I was beginning to think you pulled a disappearing act on me! But of course, I’m the only magician here—” He cut himself off abruptly, as his eyes finally adjusted to the darkness of the room. Squinting, he could see the outline of their form grow sharper, smoothing out to show the details he had missed on his first glance.

A sheen glossed over their red and swollen eyes. The edge of the blanket was clutched in a hand so tight it was shaking. Their breaths were fractured, drawn sharply from their place under the sheets.

“Are you alright?” Lyney asked, keeping his tone light, in spite of the panic clouding his thoughts. His mind was buzzing, spinning in circles with constant questions of why. “Come on, you didn’t miss me that much, did you?” He tried to joke as he walked up to the side of the bed, grasping at any chance of easing the tension in the room.

A weak sob broke apart any feeble attempt at lightening the mood.

“Shh… I’m sorry, it’s okay, I’m here…” he whispered, settling a hand on their cheek. “You’re okay. I’m here. I love you.”

I love you. The words fell almost too easily, surprising himself. Love was always a distant emotion to him; felt, but rarely spoken aloud, for fear it would vanish the moment his lips formed the words. But he knew he loved them—so much, so much more than they would ever be able to see.

“I love you,” he said again, firmer—to convince himself as well as them. His hands shifted from their cheek and brushed along their arm with a feather-light touch, grasping their hands in his own. He brought them to his lips, kissing the knuckles. “Now what’s wrong? Did you have a bad day?”

A murmur; not quite affirmative, not quite refusing.

“You don’t have to talk about it now if you don’t want to.” He reassured them, rubbing his thumb in soothing circles on the side of his hand. “I’ll be ready when you do.”

Lyney let go of their hands for a moment to shrug off the outer layers of clothing, letting them fall into a pile on the carpet. He didn’t bother to properly change into his nightclothes; instead, he fell onto the bed, costume and all. The corseted portion of his outfit dug into his skin uncomfortably, but he barely noticed; he was too busy tugging them against his chest.

“I love you,” he said as he kissed their forehead, leaving his lips resting on their skin for a beat.

“I love you, so much.” He murmured as his fingers began to card through their hair, working out all of the tangles that had found themselves there.

“I love you, and whatever you’re going through, I am here for you.” He promised as he pulled them as close as they could, resting with their face in the crook of his neck and his arms draped loosely on their hips.

Their sobs soon evened out to low, shuddering breaths that left them shaking in his arms. Lyney was still, only daring to move his hand to trace circles across their back. Even with all his reassurance, they were yet to speak a single word. He continued to speak anyway, pressing his nose to their head and whispering into their hair, between gentle kisses to their face.

Each one was a promise, a lingering reminder that he was there. One to the bridge of their nose, one more to their forehead, two to each of their cheeks. They were peppered across their face, scattered like invisible stars in the smallest of skies.

He would wait there as long as he needed to, murmuring gentle words under his breath until they knew just how loved they truly were.

reblogs and comments are appreciated! ♡

[webslingingslasher]

It's Better On Top

i relate cause this was me a few months ago.

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 5.3K

Warnings: small smut scene, overprotective brothers and a small spiral of panic

Summary: you've always wanted to sleep on the top bunk of a bunk bed, it was sacrier than you thought and you need your boyfriend to help you get down

There was a child-like wonder to Peter’s room. 

The wall’s were a muted tone, chosen by whichever maintenance man who hated the idea of color. To make up for the lack of personality he’s added his own. Posters from being a tween till now, you could make out the older ones by the wrinkles in the edges. Pictures from all ages bounced around the room, ones with May, Ned and you. You always liked to fawn over his childhood ones, he looked so small and loving. He’d gladly follow you in the back of the van to see your new puppy, a favorite is one where he’s perched on May’s shoulders so happy to be up high. 

Awards and certificates of his genius covered any empty spots, only small peeks of the bland wall poked through. He had trinkets all around, figurines and collectables. He kept his prized ones on a shelf where he dusted once a week, the others floated on shelves, windowsills, or his desk. And the legos, he had sets everywhere, he hated breaking them apart after. It wasn’t about maintaining a pretty thing, it was about appreciating his frustration, concentration, and pride. 

He can do hard things because they turn out beautiful in the end. 

You caught the loose pieces, tucked in a plastic tub under his bed. 

His bed. Your favorite part of his room, he had something you’ve always wanted before. You begged your parents for years but they never delivered, you never had friends with one either. They just looked so fun, a permanent sleepover. Something to open the room, more space to play. When you first came over to his house you stood in awe, he had one. It was too soon to ask, and you waited until the moment striked. 

Tonight was the night you would finally fulfill your childhood dreams and sleep on the top bunk of a bunk bed. 

“Question.” 

Peter looked up from his desk for a moment, his tongue poking at the corner of his mouth slunk back in. He answered your words with a raised eyebrow, he grunted looking at his suit sewing up the shoulder. 

“Can I sleep on the top bunk tonight?” 

His eyes flickered up to the top, then back to his suit. 

“Why do you wanna do that? I sleep on the bottom bunk, you know.” He tugged the thread tightly. 

You do know, you’ve never been on top though. It felt like a summer camp, as you imagine. You’ve never been to one, you wonder if Peter has. To sleep in the same room as Peter, arm lengths away, to have him softly snoring underneath you as you count the stress fractures on his ceiling sounded blissful. 

“I’ve never slept on a bunk bed.” 

Peter looks at you and grins, “You sleep on it with me.” 

You roll your eyes, “Yeah but I’ve never had the sleepover bunk bed experience.” 

He drops his hands for a moment, “You never told me that, we could’ve done that ages ago baby.” 

You perk up, “So tonight?” 

Peter smiles softly, “I don’t know the last time the sheets were washed, I’ll set it up for you and I promise next time you can.” 

You bounce up and down on his bed, you can’t help yourself. You’re just so excited, you leap up to cross the room to press kisses to his face. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” He laughed as he lightly pushed you off him, “If I had known it would make you this happy I would’ve had you up there a million times by now.” 

You squeeze at him before clasping your hands, “It’s gonna be so fun, Petey. It’ll be like summer camp!” 

He raised an eyebrow, “Does that make me your counselor?” 

You ran your index finger down his chest and lowered your voice, “Shit sexy, you could be my camp director.” 

He matched your energy, “I’ll direct your camp.” 

You tried to bite back a smile, right before you broke it he sucked a breath through his teeth. 

“That was bad.” 

“It was.” 

“Swing and a miss.” 

“If you’re on my mound you won’t be missing.” 

Peter fake gagged, “You’re just as bad as me, get away you’re radiating bad flirting vibes and it’s affecting me.” 

You gasp and smack his shoulder, “Take it back! I’m not a bad flirt!” 

He nods and puts on a dumb voice, “Okay.” 

You cross your arms and narrow your eyes, Peter takes in your movements and gasps.

“Don’t you dare.” 

“I will if you don’t take it back.” 

“It’s not my fault you’re radiating bad flirting vibes.” 

“That’s it, you have two seconds or the legislation is being enacted.” 

Peter holds his breath and winces, he’s not breaking. Neither are you. 

“I tried being reasonable, Parker. You’ve lost kissing privileges until you repent for your sins against hot, excellent flirter girlfriends.” 

He holds a fist in the air and cries out, “Noooooo!” 

“That doesn’t sound like an apology to me, me and my lonely lips are going back to your bed, where they will stay until I get a heartfelt apology.” 

Peter pulled at the thread on his needle with his teeth snapping it. He tossed his suit on his desk and pulled at your arm as you walked away from him, spinning you around he pulled you into his lap and kissed you repeatedly, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Each apology wrapped with a kiss. You giggled and kicked your feet and you pushed at his jaw but he insisted on kissing your jaw and neck. 

“Okay, okay! Sins repented!” 

“Did I do enough hail mary’s, my priest?” A wet kiss placed at your jawline. 

“What kind of roleplay is this?” Peter jumped slightly, May was leaning in the doorway. 

“I had to repent for my sins, May. I was just making sure I was in the clear.” 

“He said I had bad flirting vibes, May. The boy had to be punished.” 

May ran one index finger over the over in a ‘shame’ motion, “Shame.” 

Peter groaned, “I repented! The priest gives me the pass, go back to Jeopardy, May.” 

May raised her hands, “Alright, children of god. Dinner in an hour.” 

She turned slowly as she walked away, “No more sinning under my roof, Peter. You’re on thin ice as is.” 

He turned to whisper to you, “Did she just tell me I was going to hell?” 

You nodded quickly and matched his tone, “Yeah baby, she did.” 

Peter scoffed and looked at his suit with a sigh, “And just when a guy thinks he’s won enough good karma he’s tossed back in the hole.” 

“I bet it's lonely down there.” 

“And cold.” 

“I picture rain.” 

“Yeah, but it’s only on me so I can’t escape it.” 

“Like one of those cartoons with the clouds above their head?” 

“Exactly.” 

“Damn. Well, I’ll send a postcard from heaven.” 

“That is literally so toxic, get off of me.” 

You threw your head back laughing as Peter lightly pushed at your thighs.

—----------------------

You couldn’t help the wicked grin that crossed your face, Peter Parker was many things but number one on the list is best boyfriend ever. 

He had sent you a picture of the top bunk, it was taken from the ladder. A new set of sheets and your favorite throw blanket you kept on the couch was tucked in the corners of the bed. His childhood teddy bear was tucked in the railing against the wall, a small paper he wrote on was taped to the wall, you couldn’t read it over the phone. 

‘Guess who’s gonna have the best sleepover of their life.’ Was the text sent with it, you couldn’t help but send one back of your cheesy grin. ‘Did I ever mention how much I love you?’

‘Once or twice, it doesn't hurt to hear it again.’

‘I love my handsome, thoughtful boyfriend.’

He sent a questioning emoji, ‘You have another boyfriend?’

‘It’s amazing how you can be lovely and toxic at the same time.’

‘Like a fuckin mirror babe.’

You grunted at the phone with narrowed eyes. 

‘Be safe tonight, don’t die pls.’

‘I have a very important sleepover and my girlfriend is losing her bunk bed virginity, (twice) so I can’t die, the gods have spoken it into existence.’

‘Just for that comment, I lied. I wasn’t a virgin.’ 

‘Trust me, you were.’

You sent a grumpy face, ‘I’ll see you tonight, I love you.’ 

‘Love you too, baby.’

You could hardly count the minutes down until Peter got back from patrol and sent you the come over text, as silly as it was it felt like it was healing your inner childhood. Not to mention, unknown to you, Peter totally leaned into it and was committed to give you the best sleepover ever, snacks and drinks and take out and movies and everything you could want at a sleepover was carefully planned. 

Staring at your dresser you contemplated showing up in pajamas or bringing a bag, you figured you should bring some real clothes just in case but you were committed to wearing one of his shirts with some pajama shorts, ones he would say were delicious on you. They were too short for you to bravely wear them on the bus so you begged your brother to take you, it only cost you twenty bucks, he let you off easy. 

You knew he was busy swinging and you always hated the idea of sending him a text while he was possibly in the middle of kicking someone's ass and throwing him off, however, this was life or death.

‘Are we eating at yours or should I eat here?’

‘I planned on chinese, I should be home in an hour or two.’ 

"Sounds yummy, let me know when you’re on the way home, it only cost me a twenty to get a ride.’ 

‘Highway robbery, man up and strap some webshooters to those wrists.’ 

‘I’d die and you would be happy.’ 

‘Cash in on that life insurance.’ 

‘I knew you were with me for my money.’ 

‘And dat ass.’ 

‘I’m taking a shower.’ 

“Ooh, take a picture.’ 

—--------------------------------

You resorted to painting your toenails and watch a quick murder mystery video on youtube while you waited for Peter to call, the waiting was always the hardest part, you were selfish and wanted him when you wanted him, you just had to remind yourself it’s just like he has a normal job but with better flexibility. 

It didn’t make it easier, you still wanted Peter more than the city deserved Spider-Man. You would never tell him that. 

You steady your hand as you applied the second coat, you took the shower first and wouldn’t be able to wash away the color that went out of line. 

Your phone lit up with a picture of Peter, he was rubbing at his eye with a soft grin, caught before a yawn. It was the morning of a sleepover and you caught him before he made you breakfast and smothered you in kisses between May’s wandering eyes. 

“Hello lover.” You drawled out the words like you weren’t waiting for his call.

“Hey trouble.” His voice was as smooth as aged scotch on the rocks

You heard him breathe in quickly as the air wooshed by him, he was heading home you assume. 

“I’m gonna stop and get us dinner, head over in ten, okay baby?”

“Get me soup too, please!” 

“Got it. Wait, should I get your brother something?” 

“Are you trying to wine and dine my sibling?” You giggle into the phone.

“I’m trying to make him like me.” 

“Crab rangoons are a start.” 

“He’s gonna be my bitch in five years, just you wait.” 

“Playing the long game are you?” 

“You know, if you want to slip how good of a boyfriend I am for fulfilling your childhood dream on that car ride I wouldn’t object.” 

“Petey, honey. He doesn’t give a shit about my childhood dreams.” 

“Siblings are brutal. Thank god I’m an only child.” 

“I’ll get him to come inside, you can bro hug or whatever and give him his rangoons and he’s guaranteed gonna tell me you’re cool later in private.” 

“You’re the bestest, see you soon, trouble.” 

“Love youuuuu.” 

The second you hung up you nearly kicked the door in at your brother's room and told him he had five minutes before he had to tote you across town, per agreement.

Minutes later you were riding in silence as he blasted a new playlist, you would never admit it but you found some good songs from him. At a red light he rested his hand on his gear shift, picking at his bottom lip he tried subtle conversation. 

“Are you gonna need a ride home tomorrow or will the kid take care of it?” 

“If you don’t feel like picking me up then Peter, my boyfriend, will take me home.” Then follow up with, “Or maybe stay another night.” 

He shakes his head quickly, “I’ll pick you up, just text me when.” 

“He’s coming on the trip this year, you have to be nice. He’s nice, he’s good to me.” You say his name softly, he’s told you before that it’s just him fearing for your heartbreak, something Peter could cause and he would have to watch you heal from that. He knows how true heartbreak feels and he would never want you to feel that too, he thought he was dying. 

He accelerated at the green light. 

“I don’t hate the kid, I just don’t like him.” 

You sigh, “You can call him by his name, you won’t summon him I promise.” 

“He’s nice, I’ll throw you that bone.” 

“Just nice?” 

“He seems to treat you alright, rare to have a freakishly chivalrous guy this day in age.” 

“I’m telling Peter you said that, he’s so anxious about you hating him. He is so desperate for your approval it’s kinda sad.” 

“Don’t! Intimidation is the only thing I have over him.” 

You know he jokes about messing Peter up if he dares dump you but you know it’s all talk. 

“You really think Peter’s gonna dump me?” 

“Between the two of you? Yeah. You could never do it.” 

You snort, “He said the exact same about himself.” 

Your brother just hums and turns the music back up, there was no need to ask for directions, he’s been on this route hundreds of times in the past almost year. 

When he pulled to the curb you made a puppy dog face, “will you please come up? I have something you need to bring home and I don’t want to have to go up and down twice.” 

He pulled his eyebrows in, “You can’t bring it home tomorrow?” 

Shit. 

“No, mom needs it now. I forgot to ask Peter to bring it over earlier.” 

“What is it?” 

“C’mon, please! It’ll take five minutes.” 

He stared at you before groaning and throwing his seat belt off, ripping the key from the ignition. Without waiting on you he opened his door and started walking to the entrance making you scramble to escape the seat and power walking to catch up. 

You walked in on him mass spamming the elevator button as if it would make it come faster, “what floor is the kid on again?” 

“Peter.” you enunciated, “Lives on floor seven.” 

“Right.” 

He knocked, no, pounded on the door. Peter swung the door open fast, half worried you were desperate to get in but rather met with your brother's face. He quickly reset himself and smiled before opening the door for you to enter, Peter held out his hand for a shake with a nod of his name. 

Your brother shook his hand firmly, “Pecker.” 

“Peter!” you corrected, loudly. 

Peter waved it off, “close enough.” Then made his way to you leaning in for a quick kiss, “Hi, trouble.” You couldn’t help the smile. “Hi, handsome.” He gave you a squeezing hug and mumbled in your ear as he softly swayed you, “I missed you,” 

Your brother let out a gag, “alright what did you need me to bring home, this place reeks of Parker.”

“Ah! I got you these,” he hopped into the kitchen to grab the small take away box. “Crab rangoons.” Peter nodded at the container as he handed it out, your brother took it wearily, “I don’t normally accept bribes but this one slides, that’s-“ he made eye contact with you, “very nice of you.” 

You nodded your head and couldn’t help the growing grin, then he realized your game and gave a nod at Peter then turned to leave he pointed at you, “I’ll pick you up tomorrow.”

“Oh you don’t have to, I can bring her home.”

Your brother looked over his shoulder at him, then repeated himself “I’ll pick you up tomorrow.”

When the door shut loudly Peter looked at you with an excited face, “that went well, right? He only referred to me as a penis once!” You smiled before grabbing at his shoulders moving him to the couch and straddling him, Peter rested his palms on your thighs lightly tapping them, his eyebrows raised waiting for you to talk. 

“He didn’t want me to tell you this but because I love you, and I’m starting to feel extreme pity for you-“ 

“Thanks, baby.” A squeeze. 

“-Welcome, he told me in the car that he thinks you’re nice and you treat me freakishly well, so in his words, “I don’t hate the kid, I just don’t like him.””

“At this rate he may even tolerate me by the time we go on vacation.” 

You squeeze his shoulders and place a chaste kiss to his mouth, “The rangoons just put you at not complaining if you come over for dinner level.” 

Peter threw his head back, “Let’s goooooo.” 

You let out a small sigh, he tried so hard. “It’s not personal Pete, he just doesn’t want you to hurt me and not that he would admit it, I think a part of him doesn’t want to like you because if we were to ever split he would miss you too.” 

He pulls a dumb face, “okay but has he considered we won’t break up, like ever?” 

You shrug, “Yeah, about that..” 

Peter rolls his eyes and flips you to pin you to the couch, “you stop it, woman. I am going to wine, dine and bed you before banishing you from mine tonight.” 

“Don’t wanna make the bed rock from up top?” 

“And have my head whack the ceiling a million times? No.” 

“I could be on top.” 

“And have you whack your head on the ceiling? Absolutely not.” 

“You’re such a gentleman, do you have any objections to making the couch rock?” 

Peter dropped his jaw and scoffed, he looked over your face looking for your bluff, you weren’t kidding. He supported himself with one hand as the other slipped under his— your shirt, “You know May uses this couch.” 

You nod as you wrap your legs around his waist pulling him in, “I know.” 

He groans when you grind against him, “It would be dirty of us, we shouldn’t.” 

You look in his eyes as he watches you pull up slightly pulling your shirt off, he glances at your chest before looking back at you. “We shouldn’t,” you agree with him as you shuffle your pajama shorts down your thighs, Peter lets out a room quieting gasp when you pull him from his pants. 

“Fuck you’re eager.” 

You lean up to place a kiss below his ear, “I’m just showing how much I missed you.” 

He let out another curse when you rolled your hips into his, “You’re dirty, so so dirty.” ————————-

Peter had woken you up from the couch around one in the morning, he had let you sleep through the last half of the movie you had started. And you were sleepy until he woke you up and started to push you towards his room and seeing his bedside lamp light up the room woke you up more. 

Rubbing at your eye you speak through a yawn, Peter still understands. 

“Course you can still sleep up top.” 

He pulls down his own sheet and shakes his own yawn, you start to climb up the ladder and notice the higher you got the shakier your knees became, then you slightly duck because you’re closer to the ceiling than you estimated. 

With a slight turn over your shoulder your tongue melts in your mouth, it’s higher up than what you thought. And sure, you’re not a kid and it’s just a bunk bed but it feels like all rational thinking went out the window, it was high up and you can’t help but think about the fall down. 

“Help?” 

Peter looked at you with a tilted head and his hands on his hips, he was about to ask ‘help with what?’ but rather used his detective skills and nodded his head. He crossed the room and followed you up the ladder, as he followed up you were able to comfortably sit on the top bunk. 

You crossed your legs with a small smile, like you didn’t just panic and ask for him to follow you up in case you somehow fell backwards. Peter’s eyebrows rise to ask if everything's okay, you open your arms for him to follow you down on the bed, you close him in with a tight hug. 

“I love you.” 

He laughs and places a kiss on your neck, “I love you too baby.” 

“Okay, I’m ready. Tuck me in and call it a night, dad.” 

Peter watched you shuffle under your blanket with a grunt at the title, he leaned over you to tuck in the sides so you were snuggled in. He pushed some hair out of your face and pressed a soft, longing kiss to your mouth. 

“Goodnight, trouble.” 

You bit your lip to suppress a grin, only a whisper left your mouth, “night.” 

Only lasting five minutes of silence in the dark room, which was your preference by the way, Peter didn’t mind if a light was on but you claimed you couldn’t sleep in the light. 

“It makes my eyelids see through, Peter.” 

“You’re so dramatic.”

You called out to Peter. 

“Pst, Peter.”

He has a stage whisper, “yeah?” 

“Have you ever been to summer camp?” 

He shuffles in bed, you think he’s pulling the blanket up. 

“I’m poor.” 

“I’ve never been either.”

“Notice you didn’t say you’re poor too?” 

“Money is a mindset, Peter.” 

“Sounds like you’re poor.” 

A sigh, “I am.” 

You hear him roll over, your own bed shakes with his jostle, you grip your sheets. Your slight edge sparked Peter’s senses. 

“You okay up there?” 

You wouldn’t object if he begged you to come sleep with him, but you were going to see out this childhood dream. 

“Yeah. I miss you.” 

He snorts, “Reach your hand down.” 

You follow his instructions and wiggle your arm through the side bars, his hand encases your own. For a moment everything settles and you almost ask for him to come join you, but you’re terrified of the bed shaking. 

“Couldn’t be further from you if I tried.” 

“Will you do this all night?” 

“And risk a frozen shoulder for you?” He shoots out, then adds, “Of course I would.” 

“Aw, you’re such a good friend!” 

His hand squeezes yours, “what kind of a friend?” 

You giggle, “the bestest!” 

“Wrong B word, dear.” 

You gasp, “ I don’t think you’re a bitch, Peter!”

He groans, “That’s it, fend for yourself. Goodnight, traitor.” 

Peter’s hand drops from yours and he turns towards the wall, you whine when he pulls away from you. “Fine then, goodnight, Parker.” 

You hear him mumble to himself and grin while you let sleep take over. 

——————————

Your phone said it was four twenty three in the morning. 

You wonder when Peter will wake up, if he would rise when the sun did or, more likely, sleep until you wake him up when you get too bored of entertaining yourself like you usually do. 

You have to pee, bad. 

You got as far as one step on the ladder then felt yourself slightly sway, you tried to find the next step but were too scared to extend your foot all the way to reach it. 

You tried looking back and cursed yourself for sleeping in the pitch black tonight, you were in limbo between sending it and hopping down and crawling back up and waving a white flag. 

Deciding you were a grown badass you forced yourself to take the next step and nearly slipped, Peter’s foot was resting right between the steps and his blanket made the step slick. You nearly fell backwards, in a rush you climbed back up and checked the time to see if you could wait it out. 

You were able to wait for ten minutes, then a cramp hit and all you can think about is the toilet ten steps away.

Calling quits you realize your only hope was Peter, and he was dead asleep judging by his snores. Nevertheless, you start to plead. 

“Peter?” A whisper. 

“Peter.” A little louder. 

He snores loudly at that one. 

“Peter!” A whisper shout. 

He’s not answering. 

He’s not answering, and he’s not awake, and you can’t get down, and you have to pee and you were the one that wanted this. 

You blink back tears, why do you want to cry? 

“Peter!” You spoke in a regular but quiet voice. 

He stays silent, you start to chant his name over and over, he doesn’t respond. 

On the fourth call your tears break through, you sigh heavily. Tears dripped down your chin into your hands, you called out one more time, begging. 

“Peter, please.” 

You sniffle, then let out a breath of fresh air. 

“Baby?” It’s raspy and spoken through a sharp inhale, he feels like cold water has been dumped on him. 

He stares at the slats above him like he has x-ray vision to see through them to you. 

“Peter! I can’t- I don’t know how- I have to-“ You start to breath heavy, your eyes flooding with panic and embarrassment, and you really fucking have to pee. 

Peter untangled himself to stand up, he pulled down a leg of his boxer briefs that had risen with his tossing and turning. 

“What’s wrong?” 

You gasp for air, you feel the bed shake when he pulls at the ladder to pull himself up. You wrap your hands around your head, “I wanna get down, I wanna get down!” 

You repeat the words over and over until you feel hands over your own, the bed dips where Peter has his knees on either side of you. He wraps you tight in his arms, “It’s okay, you’re okay. We can get you down, it’s okay.” You wind your arms around his, tucking yourself in your neck to start to cry. 

Peter’s heart hurts, you’re scared. 

“You’re safe. I’m here, okay?” 

He feels your warm breath wash over his chest, you try and calm yourself down, it’s not as scary when Peter has you surrounded. 

“I couldn’t get down and you wouldn’t wake up.” 

Peter frowns between your studders, he hates that you were calling out for him and he didn’t hear it. 

“I’m so sorry, baby. I’m here now, okay? Wanna get down?” 

You nod into his neck, “I have to pee so bad.” 

Peter breathed through a smile and kissed the top of your head, “okay, let’s go pee.” He pulled himself away and started to go down the ladder, you watched him with wide eyes trying to memorize his steps so you could match. 

You looked up and noticed how close you were to the ceiling, your throat felt like it closed up. You could feel how shaky your knees were even looking at the space to go down, you figured you would wet the bed tonight. 

“I’m right here, trouble. I won’t let you fall, I promise.” 

You shake your head, “I can’t. I tried and I can’t.” 

Peter hums and looks around the room, he can’t carry you down. The physics wouldn’t allow him too, his only option was catching you. 

“Can you sit on the railing for me, baby?” 

You reached out a hand to wiggle it, it seemed sturdy. 

“Okay.” 

You white knuckled the banister when it creaked under your weight, “Peter, get me down, please get me down. I’m gonna freak out.” 

“I need you to trust me, sweetheart. Just drop.” 

You hold on tighter, your voice squeaks. “Drop?!” 

“I gotta catch you, I can’t carry you down, baby.” 

You look over to the window, the moon was lighting up one side of the room, you can barely make out his figure on the side of the bed. 

“Can you see me?” 

He lets out a small laugh, “Yes, baby, I can see you.” 

You buffer and hold up a hand, “How many fingers am I holding up?” The other hand has a vice grip to steady you.

“Four.” 

You whine, “I’m scared.” 

Peter’s heart hurts again. 

“I know you are, I promise I’ll catch you, okay?” 

“Okay.” You don’t sound very confident. 

“I’m gonna let go.” 

“I’m ready.” 

You loosen your grip then immediately double down. 

“Okay, I’m gonna drop now.” 

“Got it.” 

You stay there for another second. 

“Baby, you gotta let go.” 

“Be honest, will you be mad if I wet the bed?” 

“No, but how are you gonna get down after that?” 

You breathe in deeply, “I’m gonna actually do it, you promise you’ll catch me?” 

“I promise.” 

You loosen your hold to push off, “I’m about to let go.” 

“I’m right here.” 

You hold your breath and push off as hard as you could, your hair breezes and your body feels weightless for just a moment. Then you’re caught, hands wrap around your back and thighs, you feel yourself bounce in his hold then level out. 

“Caught you.” Peter’s voice is a whisper in your ear, you kick your legs to be let down. You immediately turn to wrap him in a hug, “thank you, I love you.” Then push him back to sprint to the bathroom. 

When you come back in he’s back in bed, his blanket open for you to join. You couldn’t help but feel like a little kid, but it was dark and high up and to be fair you couldn’t see where you were going. 

Sliding next to him his eyes open, “the first time I was on top bunk I was like, seven and I had a nightmare and I couldn’t get down and was screaming so loud May woke up and had to come rescue me.” 

“I didn’t realize I'd feel so trapped up there.” 

He hums, “It does feel like that, huh?”

“You were my hero tonight, you’re good at that. Maybe you should look into a job doing that.”

“I may have to look into it, I’m tired of being New York City’s Spider-Menace.” Then decides to add, “I’m sorry you were scared and needed me and I wasn’t waking up. You must’ve been petrified.” 

“I don’t think I’m ever gonna go up there again.” 

He laughs, “that’s okay.” 

You roll over to stick your face against his arm. “Sorry I woke you up.” 

“Your tears were coming through the slats, it was chinese water torture.” You open your mouth to bite at him, he grunts. “I’ll let you get away with that, you had a scary night.” 

“Remember earlier when we were talking about B words?” 

Peter hums, he’s falling back asleep. He never used to fall asleep so fast until he met you, having you tucked into his side always made him sleep soundly. 

“You’re the best boyfriend ever.” 

He opens his arm to pull you into him, “you make it easy.” 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Long Snake Moan 5

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Loki

Summary: your boss gives you a task you’re not prepared for.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

He’s still there when you return to your desk. Just like the ring on your finger, Loki is immoveable. Your knuckle hurts from trying to yank it off.

You sit at your desk and try to ignore him as he stares from one of the acrylic chairs across from you. They’re rarely used, more so for the illusion of accommodation than anything. 

His gaze casts a blazing heat over you. Your focus is fractured by his unyielding observation. He hums, a taunting tune, as you type and pretend to be alright. You’re not. You’re far from it. 

That sinking doom is muddled in a sludge of disbelief. You just can’t accept this is real and yet hat pit in your chest assures you otherwise. How did he do this? Thor always says his brother is a trickster and you know well of Loki’s unsavoury past, as most New Yorkers would, and yet, this is nothing you could ever predict. 

“What is it you mortals call it?” He speaks at last, jarring you from your troubled trance. “A honeymoon? Would you like to go away, darling? I know this place on the other side of the moon. Your moon, that is... it’s not too derelict and the sky is rather romantic--” 

“Stop,” you splay your fingers over the keyboard. “I’m working.” 

“Mm, yes, you’ve some time to go...” he checks the watch on his wrist. “What are we at? Less than two hours. I must admit, I am counting the minutes.” 

You stand and take a deep breath, “I need a tea.” 

You twist on your heel and march away. You doubt caffeine is going to help your nerves. It’s more that the flavour is familiar enough to offer some shred of comfort.  

As you enter the breakroom, he’s already there. You hate that. How does he do that? You glance over your shoulder then turn back to the room. 

“What is it you prefer?” He peruses the selection of pods. “Mm, pumpkin spice?” He takes a pod and sniffs it, “smells less than appetizing.” 

“I can do it myself,” you approach him and reach for the box of oolong pods. He catches your hand and runs his thumb decisively over the large emerald. You wince as he keeps hold of you. 

“Darling, I am your husband. Allow me to show you the advantage of this union--” 

“I know why you did it. You get to stay. I never wanted you gone, I only delivered the message. You don’t have to do this. If you want to stay, I’ll lie but this is... it isn’t necessary.” You tug but cannot free yourself of his snare. 

“While that may suffice, I don’t have much faith in your skills of deception. I have considered all facets of this plan and we must prove this union to be genuine, thus we may as well commit--” 

“Loki,” you hiss and his brow arches. “Prince, whatever, this is strange. In your research did you not figure out that ‘mortals’ as you call us get to know each other first?” 

“Not always. Not for the majority of your history. There are some rather entertaining scenes along the way. Some I had the pleasure of witnessing myself,” he snickers. “An arranged marriage is not unheard of, even presently in some regions. I could not wait to charm you but I can more than make up for that.” 

“Charm me? You couldn’t even ask me? Talk to me?” 

“We are speaking now. We are working through our first marital hurdle. Together,” his grin assures you that he is being less than authentic. This is a game to him. “Allow me to prepare your tea, wife. You are hard at work.” 

You scrunch up your nose in frustration and he lets you go as you pull away, “why me??” 

His lashes flick up and down as his lips curve deeper, “when you say my name, I imagine you moaning it, and it doesn’t sound so bad.” 

You gurgle. Your stomach knots and tugs. Something inside you plucks. You step back and hug yourself, as if hiding from him. 

“Uh, I...” you look away and shake your head. “You’re right. I’m working so I would appreciate the tea. Thank you. Just milk, if you don’t mind. Please. Er.” You wobble around on your heels. The slither of his voice sticks in your ears and you smell smoke. What is happening? 

You go back to your desk and sit heavily. You stare at the screen as it hazes to a medley of colours. The font obscures in your distant vision and fold your hands on the edge of your desk. 

This is very strange. This is hard to swallow. It’s not what you had planned for today. Or really ever. Not just marrying Loki but anyone. You’re perfectly happy alone. You’ve built a small life for yourself. It’s not that bad. You like the routine and the simplicity and now he’s gone and messed it all up. 

“Darling,” he purrs as he appears with your tea, jarring you from your gloom.  

You sit back and bite down on your tongue. He sets the cup on your coaster, coming close enough that you roll back in your chair. As he stands straight, you rest your elbows on the armrests. 

“You don’t have to pretend to be nice now. You’ve already messed it all up.” 

He laughs again. You hate that. He thinks everything is so funny. This is your life. 

“Messed what up, exactly? I know a Midgardian’s life cycle, I’ve lived through many and so by my estimate, you are overdue for marriage--” 

“That isn’t-- oh my god,” you drag your hands down your face. You drop them into your lap and look at him. “When I told you, you were angry. You looked at me like you hated me. So, how do you think this is going to work?” 

“Hate is powerful but there are things that can overwhelm it,” he shrugs. “I do enjoy the way your legs look when you walk in those shoes and your skirt compliments you well. Now, I know you do not hate me, I can read others rather well. You are intimidated yes, but fear can also make one...how should I put this, sexually aroused?” 

“Oh god. Please,” you wheel back to your desk and shield one side of your face with your hand. “That’s not—Like I said, we can pretend.” 

“This marriage is very much real, darling,” he intones. 

“No.” 

“Yes.” 

“No.” 

“Yes, it is--” 

“Lokiiiiii,” you growl and pop your head up to snarl at him. 

He smirks and tilts his head, “ooh, say it again.” 

“Stop, please.” 

He chortles and his eyes flare. You don’t like the way they glint, “darling, your dear husband brewed you a tea, please, do not let it grow cold.” 

You sigh and look down at the cup. You raise it and blow the steam away. You sip. It’s rather nice, richer than you would expect. In fact, it’s so good you can’t stop drinking. You’ve had that oolong a dozen times over and you’ve told Tony to get a different brand as it is far from your favourite, but today, it is like honey. 

You wipe your lips at the dribble left behind and set down the cup. Loki resumes his seat by the wall, “hmm, just over an hour to go, darling.” 

[auspicioustidings]

Kinktober Day 26

This is a reworked version of the original day 26 taking into account feedback.

Moniker: Mace Risk Level: High. Mace is a permanent resident of the Kennel. Brief: Cervix-bullying, degredation Safeword: Refer to first brief. Mace may push limits now he has you to himself. Ghost will be right outside - Price

You took a deep breath outside of the door and steeled yourself. Bastard had you in a pretty little summer dress, no underwear. The fabric was exceedingly rippable and you suspected that was on purpose. Cervix-bullying didn’t sound like something that was going to be fully pleasant, but then when he had fucked you with his fist you hadn’t thought that could possibly feel good and you came anyway.

Ok, you could do this, was Mace really so fucking scary? If anything he was just annoying around the Kennel. You didn’t think you had been around one another outwith this room without bickering. You pushed the door open, letting it close behind you while you took in the room. Not that there was anything to take in, it was entirely bare, just concrete floor and walls and one very large, fully dressed man.

“Mace.”

“Sweet thing.”

After a beat you leapt into action, twisting around and grabbing the door handle to get the fuck back out. He laughed and in two large steps was on you, grabbing your arm and ripping you back from the door before throwing you to the ground. It fucking hurt and you could feel that the dress was covering sweet fuck all with how you were sprawled. Fucking asshole.

“Wanker!”

“Nah not today, don’t use my hand when there’s a perfectly good pussy” he said, crouching next to you and trailing a finger up your bare leg. “Perfectly good may be a stretch hm? Hear you’ve been getting your little cunt wrecked by whoever asks. Fucking loose slut.”

“If I’m such a loose slut then why do you want me?” you shot back, maybe a little too smug about the very clear outline of hard cock pressing against the fabric of his trousers.

“Maybe I don’t and you’re just a convenient hole” he mused, the rest of his fingers joining the first as he squeezed your upper thigh hard, clearly enjoying the spill of fat around his digits and the little pained winch you gave.

“Or maybe you do and you fought to get another day with me before my contract is up.”

You held his eyes, not willing to submit as fully to him as you did for the likes of Price. A little because you were pretty sure Mace had no interest in a sweet submissive either, he wanted some bite. It was something you had learned during your interactions with him outside of the play room. Even in his interactions with others you saw it. He would wind Soap up something awful, annoy Gaz until the usually laid back man was about ready to get into a fight. You didn’t miss that he seemed to take such a particular interest in those Ghost was close to.

But mostly it was because you weren’t an idiot. There were very few people in this place for which full submission wasn’t a very dangerous concept.

“Punched König’s lights out sweet thing, he’s nursing a fractured jaw.”

You tried not to react to that, but by the glimmer of dark delight in his eyes you had failed and given away how that made your heart race and your cunt clench. Had they really fought for today? The idea of two of the biggest monsters here violently trying to assert a claim for your time shouldn’t have been hot, and yet you were pretty sure you were leaving a wet spot on the flimsy fabric of your dress.

“Must have been a cheap shot.”

“Aww, you defending your daddy? Or were you his momma? Hard to keep track with that one.”

His big body was looming over you, getting closer as his hand squeezed once more before starting to climb up between your leg.

“You jealous?”

“No need, doubt you get this sloppy wet for him. Nah, this is all for me isn’t it?”

His hand cupped your pussy, his middle finger dipping in to test just how wet you were. Wasn’t like you could do much about how soaked your cunt was. Mace was just… fuck he was so dripping with danger and your stupid brain had been so wildly traumatised by war that it took the alarm bells and turned them into arousal. Had it always been that way, or had weeks being the play thing of soldiers created that reaction in you?

“Maybe it’s not and you’re just a convenient cock.”

He barked a laugh and then manhandled you onto your knees, shoving your face down onto the floor as he unbuckled his belt to fish out his cock with absolutely no ceremony. He only tapped his already leaking tip on your hole once in warning before he crammed himself inside you.

Both of you moaned. You forgot how fucking good he felt, how heavy his scarred cock was inside of you.

“You got a silky pussy sweet thing, doubt anyone here could afford it if it wasn’t the military paying. Fucking luxurious, bet Ghost would hate to see his princess stuffed full of my spunk. Gonna fucking ruin it.”

Jesus the floor was uncomfortable, already the scrape of concrete had torn one of the straps of your dress, your tit uncomfortably close to escaping the pathetic bodice and being shredded to pieces with no barrier between skin and ground. And yet it felt right with him to have the constant edge of potential pain, the terror of mutilation being a breath away while your cunt took a pounding that it was craving.

“Ruin my pussy? You’re barely even fucking me” you taunted between pants.

“Not your pussy I’m gonna dirty up and ruin, this cock in going straight into your fucking womb you stupid bitch. I’m going to turn you inside out” he growled.

He wrestled your hips where he wanted them, your back screaming from how it was bent. From experience you knew when he was bringing out the degradation you were about to get your guts rearranged, so you tried to brace yourself. You joined your back in screaming soon after, a strangled yelp leaving you when he thrust back in and this angle sent him so much deeper.

“You feel that slut?”

“Oh my God, holy fuck” you choked, because you did.

His tip was hitting your cervix and it felt insane, like the sharp pain and teeth grinding discomfort of smacking your funny bone off of a hard surface. You tried to drag your body forward a little, one of your nails snapping as it clawed at the floor. He wouldn’t let you budge, completely overpowering you and using your body like a fleshlight.

“She can’t hold up against me for ever sweet thing, open up. Let me the fuck in” he cooed, hammering you sensitive spongy flesh.

Logically you knew that wasn’t possible, but the threat of it was sinking into you like a guillotine sinking through the back of your neck. Could he really punch through? You’d fucking die, he’d rip your womb apart and then he’d dump his cum on the wreckage.

“N-no, Mace fuck! Ah, that hurts” you cried.

It did. You pussy tried to ignore the sharp bite of pain every time he smashed against your cervix and focus on how good the stretch was, but it was too much. The scrape of your exposed skin on the concrete floor added to the pain and it was becoming miserable despite how you tried to push through and enjoy it.

“Quit whining, this is what a hole is for” he grunted, removing a hand from your waist to wrench on of your arms in position to have your hand at your pussy before he put his hand back on your waist to keep fucking you.

You tried to play with your clit, tried to get enough pleasure for the pain to start feeling good. It wasn’t working, but none the less your pussy was clenching around him only in an attempt to get his cock out rather than suck it further in. His laughed moan told you all you needed to know about how it felt for him.

“Mace please” you begged. “It’s too much.”

As much as you knew he’d rather keep going just how you were, you were also more or less warning him that you were going to need to safeword if he didn’t change it up. You nearly sobbed with relief when he pulled out.

“Such a fucking spoiled little princess” he spat while he stood and then hoisted you up to your feet and bullied you against on of the walls, spinning you so your hands were planted and your ass was up, your throbbing hole on display for him.

You screeched when he pounded back into you, trying to wriggle to make things more comfortable and being punished for it with a brutal smack on your ass. He forced your hips back where the angle meant he was bruising your already screaming cervix.

“Not doing everything for you, get your hand on your useless cunt already.”

You didn’t think it would do much good, but this time playing with your clit did feel better. The scrape of concrete was gone now, your knees aching but not being actively split open anymore. The one hand bracing you against the wall hurt, but it was nowhere near as bad as being on the floor had been.

It was hard to focus in on the bundle of nerves giving you pleasure when his cock was busy giving you unreal pain, but you were almost deliriously determined to cum. It felt like a fight with him, like he wanted to make a point that your pleasure was secondary. God it was basically just like how you bickered, constantly trying to come out on top.

You had to be rough with yourself, your fingers furiously rubbing your rapidly swelling clit. It was like a neck and neck race you thought, you just trying to keep a minuscule lead over the pain and trying to cross the finish line before it could claim victory.

“Fuck you” you hissed at him as you fought to cum.

“You’re softening up sweet thing, I can fucking feel it.”

He sounded out of it and you mostly ignored his rambling, violently embracing the orgasm that smacked into you with brutal force. It wasn’t pleasure, not with how your pussy was trying to milk and eject his cock at the same time, but it was a viciously satisfying victory.

Or it was until you actually felt his tip push a little further than should have been possible. Blinding white pain shot through you body at only the barest hint of a stretch of your cervix. You were going to throw up. Oh God.

Terror flooded through you as he frantically tried to use his cock like a battering ram.

“Fuck fuck I’m going to fucking get inside. You’re going to open, holy fuck!”

“Red! Red!” you screamed.

There was shouting and then you were empty and crumpled on the ground shivering and crying. Fingers were between your legs and there was yelling but you were disorientated from that blast of pain and the shock of him genuinely nearly breaking you.

“I don’t think so. She looks swollen and sore, but nothing inside is torn up. The scrapes and bruising everywhere else should be ok.”

Price, that was Price’s deep rumbling voice.

“Calm the fuck down!”

“Fuck off!”

That was Ghost and Mace and you looked over to the racket, finding Ghost trying to wrestle Mace into submission to get him to calm down. You caught his eyes for a moment and saw something dark and vulnerable there.

Him and Nikto were two sides of the same coin you thought. Nikto wanted so desperately to prove a connection with visible marks on the outside, blood smeared on skin, his brand burned into flesh. For Mace he needed an invisible claim on the inside. His cum inside your womb, deeper than anyone else would ever go.

You didn’t think either of them would ever be able to leave the Kennel. But they could be tempered, they could be given enough to soothe the violent possessiveness that drove them without letting it get too far. A tattoo or a scar for Nikto maybe, a plug for Mace to keep all of his cum inside your body for as long as he needed or your open mouth willing to take his spit and cum and blood.

You broke eye contact and burrowed your face into Price’s warm chest, willing your brain to switch off and let him coddle you.

If you let your thoughts keep spinning out about how you were sure you could make them happy, you were going to wind up asking to stay.