#like blood from a stone fanfic

[feverinfeveroutfic]

”have a cigar”

(drawing by me)

I had found it in the back of the closet of my new bedroom. Sure, Alex brought out the pizza peel and the roasting buds for a good time and a half, but I knew when to snoop and take my time out with the back of the closet. I knew that he and I could get down with it, but I had an ace up my sleeve that he never saw coming before, even if he never really had the chance to see it for himself.

On that particular morning, I found myself alone in the house as the two of them had headed out for another neighborhood wedding. At that point, I could let myself into any part of their house as I liked: I saved their asses and thus, I could let myself into any part of the house, barring that I cleaned up after myself. They had plenty to worry about as is, and they needn’t worry about someone like me leaving something behind in my wake.

I could go into their bedroom and take my spot on the edge of Chuck’s bed, all just to feel the shape of him there on the side of the mattress. It was moments like that in which I wished for some way to break through the royalty because I knew none of them and none of us wanted to be hitched up like this.

There was a point in which I lay down flat on my back, right in the spot on the mattress, the one I knew Chuck lay in for the night, and I closed my eyes. I yearned to feel him, to feel my soulmate, even more than I had known from before, and more so when I folded my hands over my chest. It was as if I could feel his heart just by laying there in his spot.

I could sense a brief moment coming up for the both of us: when they walked in through that door downstairs, Chuck would find his way back up to the bedroom for a moment alone, and Alex would go off into a room of his own as well. The two of them lived one another, but they both relished their alone time.

And yet, I knew that if I lay there in the bed, there was no way that I could naturally lead myself into a moment with Chuck. At least not with Alex there with him.

I opened my eyes and gazed up at the ceiling over me.

Something to surprise him.

There had to be something in order to surprise him when they returned home. There had to be something in order to bring him closer to me. I was a simple boy but I was alone, and I had the markings on me to prove it to him as well.

I climbed off the bed and padded back into the hallway: the house still remained silent even as I wandered on back over to my room. To reach down within me to find the right answer for it all.

I ran my hands down the seat of my pants: I wore nothing but blue jeans for the day, blue jeans and bare feet. I had to do more than mere blue jeans and bare feet.

I kept the door open as I delved through the closet for something, anything, anything that caught my eye. I looked on at my raincoat, a long black coat that extended down to my knees, even though it wasn’t as cold that day. Something bright shimmered behind one of the long-sleeved shirts that Chuck had gotten for me.

It was consisted of black and red stretchy nylon, complete with a stripe of fishnet mesh down the sides of the hips.

It was such a dumb idea, but I chuckled to myself when I thought about it.

I changed out of my clothes and put it on. It fit me so well, like such a glove.

I wanted to parade around the house with it on, but not with Alex around. And I heard the door open and close right then so I had to think in a haste.

Careful not to let it bunch up around my crotch and my ass, I put my pants on followed by my shirt. By my surprise, it stayed fitted to my body even with my clothes on over it.

I made my way down the stairs right as Alex breezed into the kitchen for something. Chuck turned his attention to me, and all the while, he showed me a little smile: those eyes as bright and luminous as the twilight sky, and his skin as rich and brown as the darkest chocolate I could ever possibly dream of.

“What’s all this?” he asked me.

“What’s all what?” I shook my head and tucked my hands into my pockets.

“Coming up to me like you have something to tell me,” he answered as he ran his fingers through his rich dark molasses-colored waves.

“I just wanna be with you for a second,” I confessed to him. He hooded his eyes at me. My heart pounded in my chest.

“You wanna go and chill in the next room?”

“What about Alex?” I asked him in a hushed whisper.

“Don’t worry about him—he’s got plans of his own.” He flashed me a wink, and he set a hand on my shoulder to guide me away from the front door and the entrance to the kitchen. We strode on over to the hallway under the stairs, but before we could head on to the back of the house, he showed me the cupboard door under the steps. He reached past me for the rim of the door, and I was shown a small cupboard about the size of a broom closet under the steps. Chuck then reached into his back pocket for something, and he showed me his black ball cap with a silken red interior.

Before he could come inside himself, I reached up and tugged on the chain that dangled down from the ceiling. Pale yellow light washed over us, and I pressed myself against the wall opposite from the door. He sealed us in there, complete with another run of his fingers through his hair. Nothing in there but a trio of shelves and a table with a pair of accompanying stools.

“Have a seat,” he coaxed me, and I was quick to sink onto the stool closest to me. The stocking rode up in my crotch and up my ass, but no way could I let him see me like that, however.

“Care for a glass of wine?” he offered me.

“Chuck, please. You know I don’t drink.”

“Oh, come on. You know you want some wine, Joey.”

I pursed my lips at that. The stocking had lodged itself between my crotch and my thigh, and it was stuck in my ass as well. He cocked his head to the side at the sight of me.

“You okay?” he asked me, slightly puzzled.

“Never better,” I promised him.

“You look like you have ants in your pants, though. You’re sitting like it.”

I let my eyes wander to the door itself: he had closed it all the way, meaning Alex was oblivious to us.

“Okay, fine.” I stood to my feet and unzipped my jeans. I was commando underneath, all for him. Chuck nudged the bill of his cap up for a better look at me: those luminous eyes lit up as if we were entrenched in total darkness and he bestowed me with the only way out of there.

“Goddamn, where’d you find that?” he asked me in a hushed voice.

“I found it in your closet,” I confessed to him as I took off my shirt and slung it over my shoulder as if I was stripping for him. Somewhere in the house was that stripper pole. But I had my own ass and my long hair. I turned around for him to see the shape of my body from behind.

“You really trying to get yourself killed, aren’t you?” he teased me, and he reached out and squeezed my ass with both hands. I pressed myself against the wall, to which he followed suit right behind me. I could feel him right inside of my ass, and I couldn’t help but smile to myself. He raked his fingers through my hair, and he dropped his hands down to my hips as if he was feeling the stocking as well as the shape of my body. It sent a chill up my spine, and I gasped as a result.

He kissed my neck, and I showed him my tongue as if to further tease him. He brought his hand down in front of my belly to my belt and then over to my left hip as if to hold me close to him.

I held onto his wrist to steady him, to which he gasped in my ear.

We held still there before the wall.

I guided his hand down to my crotch. His fingers spread over the fabric, and I could feel him on me. I wanted him to touch me through the fabric, through the stocking.

Chuck treated me to a gentle whimper right into my ear, and more so when I guided the palm of his hand right down onto my tip. I could already feel myself firming up by the mere thought alone. I closed my eyes when he curled his fingers over me.

“There’s a hell, I have seen it,” he whispered right into my ear.

“There is a heaven, let’s keep it a secret,” I whispered back to him, and he tightened his grip on me. I never wanted to lose this feeling, and I never wanted to leave that cupboard, either.

[nuagederose]

r.i.p. one of my angels, chuck schuldiner

like a flash of light in an endless night 🖤

ig: badmotorartist 

[josiebelladonna]

paraselenae | patina

pairing: chuck schuldiner x alex skolnick (like blood from a stone)

genre: royalty!au

fandoms: death and testament

*18+ only; minors dni*

Warnings: strip blackjack, more outdoorsy stuff

*Please note that you are responsible for your own media consumption. I came here to write and relax, not police you.*

Summary: alex and his soulmate having a moment alone while having to wait for some food

Word Count: 3660

(drawn by me; don't you dare take)

There were times in which, after Chuck and I had eloped, when I felt as though there was no way in hell on Earth that I could be sexy. I would look down at my body and grimace at the utter sight of it, at my skin, at my hips and thighs, at my own genitals, all of it, and there were times in which I would look at myself in the mirror and I found it rather difficult to stop doing so. I had a tormented relationship with myself, with my body, and there were times in which I had no idea as to where to turn to make it right for myself. I knew that if I did, then I would be able to make some sort of progress in my relationship with Chuck, and maybe the other Chuck, my soulmate.

And there were times in which I wanted to spiral out with things. I wanted to really bring myself the utmost pleasure I could ever possibly imagine for myself, and I had no idea if I wanted my new groom or my soulmate to be a part of it all. I wanted to try things out, and I wanted to get my act together with anything and everything that I could land my hands on.

I lay on the bed in our bedroom, flat on my back with my hands tucked behind the back of my head, and I gazed up to the ceiling overhead. The sun shone through the window on the other side of the room: it was a cool crisp day in the valley due south of the Bay Area, but not that cool that I had to leave the window closed. I just wanted to lay there for a time and not think about anything or anyone for a time: my back was hurting me, and my fingers felt sore to the touch as well. I had played and recorded some things on the nylon-string guitar in the next room over and, even though those strings were soft to the touch, they did do a number on my fingertips after a time. But that wasn’t why I was in pain, however: I had done some soft touches onto myself, all because I wanted to help myself look at myself in a better light.

It was such an uphill battle for me, and there were times in which I wondered if I could even reach the crest of said hill: it was rocky and barren, and I felt so dry to the touch, almost too dry. If there was any other metaphor to use to describe myself between the legs, it was the foothills not too far from there following a drought, a cold dry spell over the course of a single winter. I didn’t even want to think about sex at any given time whatsoever, as it had gotten that depressing for me.

I could hardly bring myself to think of being a good boy for Chuck, either.

I didn’t even know what to look at to even get me riled up in any sort of fashion whatsoever. It felt so beyond me at that point. I had heard things about how it was all inside me, but I felt so barren right then that I didn’t even know where to uncover the patches of sand to reveal the proverbial seedlings.

I rolled over onto my side, all to let my right hip cock out over the top of the mattress. I let my arms sprawl out before me, and I let my knees relax. I tried not to think of the shape of my body, but I did, anyway. The shape of my own body. The way that I merely lay there.

It haunted me in the back of my mind, and I had no idea if I wanted to be closer to Chuck or remain alone. My own body haunted me, just by the power of mere awareness. I didn’t want to feel this way: if I could leave my own body, then I would.

There had to be something to get me moving again. I didn’t want to leave my body yet. Something to get me out of this funk and back out to the nature of things. It was a beautiful day, for god’s sake.

I let my gaze wander over to the table underneath the windowsill: it was one of those low tables that had only one drawer in it, and I had used it so sparingly that I had completely forgotten what I had put in there.

I could hear Chuck saying something downstairs, and I still had to acquaint myself with the mere sound of his voice. I finally stood up to my feet, and I trudged over to the table itself for a glimpse into that top drawer there. At the bottom of the drawer was a receipt from a sex shop up in San Jose that I had visited almost completely on a whim.

Ah, yes, I recalled that place. I went there to get those leather teddies for the two of us that one time. There was a part of me that wanted to head on back there for another round of sorts. But then again, I wanted my time alone for the time being. I couldn’t bear thinking about getting down with it with Chuck again.

It took me a second to remember the steps that I had taken when I initially went up there, and then I recalled the leather teddies in the closet on the other side of the room: after the wedding, I had tucked them into the very back, and I had all but forgotten as to why I did that, at least until the very moment in which I heard his voice downstairs once again. I glanced down at that receipt once again, to which I sighed through my nose. I folded it up and tucked it back into that tight rear corner of the drawer itself.

But then again, there was Chuck from Florida, the Chuck whom I was attracted to. I needed to be with him. I needed to be sexy with him.

I wondered if the other leather teddy fit him, especially since the Chuck whom I was married to was of a larger size in comparison. I pictured it hanging off the slender, lithe shape of his body, and though he wasn’t there with me, I still pictured him next to me.

I peered out the window to the street below as if he would show up, and yet, he never did at any given whim whatsoever.

I remembered some of the other things that I had bought from that shop, and I wondered what else I could find there, especially once I made my way over to the closet and delved through the clothes on the rung for those bits of black leather, these lingering demons that tempted me out of my shell and into what I feared the most. I took a glimpse down to the carpet underneath my feet, and I spotted a little black box right up against the wall there.

I forgot what was in there: I lifted the lid and found a set of dice and a cherry red and black deck of cards as well as a small jar of body glitter. The memory of that night in the back room of the house all came back to me right then.

I closed the lid, and I picked up the box from the floor. This had to be tucked away and protected, not tucked away and forgotten. I headed back to the table beneath the window there for some safekeeping. The Chuck downstairs burst into laughter, and I grimaced at the sound of it.

I knew that it was going to be another round between me and him that evening: I hoped that we wouldn’t, however. It was my fear that I would be forced into it without even feeling it at a natural level. I needed to scout out the other Chuck, the Chuck from Florida, and find a moment alone with him with that black box. I knew that no matter where I went throughout the Bay Area, I would have to take that thing along with me.

I needed a little something to carry along with me as I brought my guitar along with me. Though we were crown princes, there was no way that I could forfeit my one true love and that was playing and making an intimate object sing for me. We headed out to the Bay Area for our little rehearsal space, and I never told Chuck that I had the black box with me in my backpack in the back seat there: I was holding out hope that we would run into the Chuck from Florida up there, but then again, I had my focus on the music we were about to craft out in that tiny room. I needn’t think of any sort of pleasures of the flesh even if I wanted to, anyway.

I was at war with my own body, my own flesh and blood. I didn’t want to feel like this: it was an itch I couldn’t scratch if it saved me.

That rehearsal space was this little pearly white one-story building about three blocks away from my parents’ house there in the heart of Berkeley—we had another one over by the harbor, but this one was always our favorite, however. Right across the street stood a pizza place as well as an arcade and a basketball court, even though none of us played at all. Chuck was eager to get us there bright and early, and I knew it was because he wanted to ride his bike around town: he had bought that thing some time ago and there were only a few days that he was able to take upon himself to go for a ride. I asked him if I could join him on his rides and he never gave a good response to me; then again, I wasn’t properly paying much attention, so I had no idea what he had said to me if he said anything to me at all.

We parked right before the front door of the building, and something caught my eye across the street. I peered over the roof of the car, to which I recognized that helmet of mousy brown curls in the front window there. I thought it was too good to be true, and I was nothing more than hallucinating, especially when I made my way inside of the building to greet Eric, Greg, and Lou; when I doubled back out to the car for something, I looked across the way again. He was still there. I wasn’t dreaming.

I needed to be over there as I returned to the space with my guitar on my lap and the backpack down on the floor. No one needed to know that I had that black box in there, but I also needed my ticket out of there. Something to break me out of that little building just so I could be with Chuck across the street for a few minutes.

And that something was Lou.

“Hey, Alex, could you run across the street and get us some pizza for when our lunch break comes up here?” He reached into his back pocket for his wallet, which I always found weird given he was a drummer and he moved around more than the four of us, and he gave me a twenty-dollar bill.

Ask and you shall receive, dare I say.

I took the dollar bill as well as my backpack, which I slung over one shoulder, much to Chuck’s surprise.

“Hold up, what’re you taking your pack for, Alex?” he asked me through the microphone head, which made his voice echo all through the front room there. “You’re just going across the street.”

“It’ll give me something to do while I wait over there,” I told him. “I don’t really want to walk back here while I'm just going to head on back there once the pizza’s done over there.”

He squinted his eyes at me; I looked over at Eric next to him, who cracked me a little smile outside of Chuck’s line of sight, as if he knew of my intent.

“Okay then,” Chuck said in a singsong voice; he ran his fingers through his hair to which he showed off the side of his neck and the rings on his pinky, ring, and middle fingers as well as the bracelet that I gave him at the wedding. Our very own friendship bracelet.

Eric stifled a giggle as I walked out of there and into the gray late morning sunlight.

I made sure the door behind me had closed all the way before I ducked across the street. Chuck turned his head and showed me a little dimpled smile from behind the pane of glass. He tucked a lock of hair behind his ear and showed me a little wave: I puckered my lips at him as I came closer to the door. When I stepped inside, I was greeted by that warm smell of pizza straight out of the oven as well as his willowy little body before me.

“I’ve missed you,” he said to me in a low voice.

“And I've missed you,” I returned the favor. “Sit tight—I’ve got to take care of some business.”

Chuck lingered back at his table while I made my way to the counter. Twenty bucks bought me two pizzas and some breadsticks, and they were all about to take thirty minutes. Thirty minutes was all I needed.

I returned to him right as he was finishing his own singular slice of pepperoni pizza before him. I stood right next to him, all so I could take in that combined smell of the pizza and the soft cologne in his hair.

“Have you seen a space in here where—you and I can be alone for a bit?” I asked him with a clearing of my throat.

“I haven’t, no,” he told me as he handed me the rest of his crust. I nibbled on my bottom lip as I took the crust and gently nibbled on one end. He showed me the tip of his tongue as he lowered his gaze down to the rest of my body, especially to my hips and thighs.

“We’ve got thirty minutes,” I informed him.

“Sounds perfect,” he said with a wink, and then without hesitation, he stood to his feet and loomed right before me, with his chest up against my own. I could smell the cologne on the sides of his neck as well as his chest, and I could smell the pizza on his breath. I swallowed, both the remainder of the crust as well as the sight and feel of him: I didn’t want to feel it before, but I genuinely did at that point, however.

“Let’s go outside,” I suggested to him in a broken voice.

“Sounds delicious,” he told me in a husky tone. He showed me the tip of his tongue again, that time all along his bottom lip, and then he took me by the hand, and he led me out of the pizza place to the sidewalk. There was an opaque wall off to the left there, which left us out of sight and out of mind from onlookers, be they inside the pizza place or from across the street. There was also no one there at the basketball courts: Chuck led me to the bushes there behind the wall and we lingered out of sight together. I slung my backpack around and unzipped the main pocket: I showed him the black box with one hand for a second, and then I set my backpack down on the ground on my left side.

I showed it to him as if I was handing him a gift for his birthday.

“What’s this?” he asked me in a hushed voice.

“Open it.”

He set his index and middle fingers on either side of the lid and lifted, and he revealed the inside of the box to the both of us.

“What’s all this?” he asked me.

“Check it out.”

He picked up the cherry red and black deck of cards as well as the body glitter, and then he squinted his eyes at me.

“Is this what I think it is?” he continued with the questions.

“If you’d like,” I said with a shrug.

“Well, we have thirty minutes,” he told me. “Not enough time for a game of poker, if I do say so myself.”

“We could do blackjack,” I suggested.

“Hey, yeah! let’s do a couple of rounds of blackjack. Twenty-one and over, and you’ve got to take off something.”

I set down the box as he took out the deck and shuffled it about for us. I knew that, if we got caught, that was it. But then again, if one of us stripped down to our underwear, it was over from thence forth.

Chuck set the deck right next to the box, and he picked up the card at the very top. He placed it down before me: the king of diamonds.

“Hit me,” I said.

The next card: the king of spades.

“I’ll stay,” I told him. He squinted his eyes at me as he picked up the next card and set it down in front of me: the ace of spades.

“Ooh, you would’a gotten twenty-one back there,” he pointed out with a wink.

“Hit me,” I told him in a near whisper. The next card: the eight of hearts.

“Hit me,” I said. The next card: the three of clubs.

“Hit me,” I said. The next card: the jack of spades, to which he whistled.

“Twenty-two, take off your shirt, big guy,” he coaxed me. I did, and I rolled up my shirt before I set it down on top of the box. I straightened up my back so he could have a full view of my bare chest and belly. His eyes dropped from my nipples down to my belly button and the little line of hair underneath there. He nibbled on his bottom lip at the sight of me, and then I reached for the top of the deck for his round next.

The queen of hearts.

“Hit me,” he told me.

Next card: the ace of hearts, to which we both gasped.

“Blackjack,” I said. “You’ve gotta take off your shirt and put some glitter on.”

I watched him take off his shirt, and he let his curls sprawl down around his head and shoulders, the thick lush mane that it was, all for me. He then reached for the box again, that time for the bottle of glitter.

I held still as he poured some into his hand, and then he smeared it over his chest: these little flecks of silver and copper over his bare skin, all around his nipples and the center of his chest. It was completely involuntary: I let my tongue slither out from my mouth as if I wanted to drink him up right then and there.

“Don’t you dare come,” he told me with a wag of his finger.

I pursed my lips together. My eyes locked with those big bright ones: he loomed in closer to me as if about to kiss me, but he never did. He instead tempted me with that tongue of his, from one corner of his mouth over to the next as if he wanted a taste of me more than the pizza.

He took a card from the deck and set it down between us. I looked down to see the jack of clubs, and then I raised my gaze to him.

“Hit me,” I said.

The next card: the five of hearts. I swallowed. It was a gamble, but one that I would be more than willing to take.

“Hit me,” I told him.

The next card and I closed my eyes.

“Open them,” he advised me. I opened my eyes and raised my eyebrows at the sight of the six of spades there before me.

“Blackjack,” I muttered.

“Blackjack.” He raised his free hand up and snapped his fingers. I unbuttoned my jeans, and then I stood up so they could come right off. I knelt back down before him for the glitter, but he took it upon himself to pour some in his hand and rub it all over my chest: he reached my belly and stopped. He leaned in closer to me and kissed the side of my neck. I curled my toes at the feeling, and more so as he dropped his lips down to my collar bone and the top part of my chest.

A slight breeze from the bay itself picked up behind me and rustled the bushes around us. I held still as he reached down into my underwear for a feel of my skin there. His fingers crept over me, and it wasn’t until the tips snaked over my shaft when I realized that I had a slight erection going there. He kissed me again, and then he followed it up with a fingertip in the hole of my dick. I parted my lips and shuddered from the feeling within me.

“Chuck... my soulmate,” I whimpered.

I could feel myself coming. And I did, all for him, in my underwear, and right as he pulled his fingertip out.

“Oh—” Only the one whom I was connected to by the power of my own scars and heart could take the pain away.

“Go get your pizza,” he whispered into my ear. “Bring back some napkins, too.”

[1800-fight-me]

Future

Logan Howlett x Female!Reader Rating: E (Explicit-MINORS DO NOT INTERACT) Warnings: Angst with a happy ending, explicit PiV sex as well as oral sex (M&F receiving), breeding kink, and daddy kink (oof) Word count: A little over 8.3k Synopsis: Logan goes back to the past in an attempt to save the world, but more importantly- you. (Set in X-Men Days of Future Past and switches between Logan and Reader's POV) Author’s note: Something about Logan makes me absolutely insane to the point that I wrote the longest most explicit sex scene I've ever written.... please enjoy P.S. I do not have a taglist! Instead if you would like to be notified when I post new fics follow my side blog @jo-writes-fanfic and turn your post notifications on! Comments and reblogs make my day! Main Masterlist

LOGAN’S POV

The future was dark and bleak. A war of uncontrollable violence, more than Logan had ever seen in his long life. 

The only bright spot in such a horrific future was you. You were the peace and rest his aching soul had long been searching for. 

It started as two people seeking solace and relief in one another, but the foundation of friendship created something so much more significant than either of you could have predicted. 

You became the planet around which he orbited. The home he never thought he’d find. The balm to his raging fire. 

Despite the hell that was life in the future, he had you. It was fitting that it caused the world falling to shit for him to finally find you. 

His self deprecating thoughts also told him that it was fitting that he lost you too. He didn’t deserve a love so pure and bright. He didn’t deserve such happiness when everyone else he cared about was either suffering or dead. 

All the blood on his hands left him marked, scarred, filthy down to his soul. But you looked past all of that, claimed you loved him anyway, claimed him. 

He was yours completely, worshiped at the altar of your affection, would go any lengths for you- do anything you ask. 

He would do anything to protect you, and it was the biggest black mark on his soul, after an extended lifetime full of mistakes, that he wasn’t able to protect you when it mattered the most. 

He shredded the sentinels, the unkillable soldiers in his rage, but one had slipped past his defenses, used your own healing powers against you and sucked the life right from you. Snuffed out your bright light all too soon. 

He killed, and killed, and killed- and it still didn’t bring you back. 

No one and nothing but him made it out of that abandoned warehouse that night. It was the tipping point for him, it made him bloodthirsty and reckless. It made him willing to go along with Charles and Eric’s ridiculous plan. 

As he laid down on the stone slab and allowed the young mutant to send him to the past, his thoughts were only on you. 

Everyone knew what his hopes were, but it went unspoken for fear it wouldn’t come true. Logan went back to the past with the desperate desire that he would wake up in a future in which you were still alive. A future he hadn’t already destroyed with the worst mistake he’d ever made. A better future. One you deserved, he would give you anything and everything you asked if he could bring you back. 

He woke in 1973 in the arms of a woman who wasn’t you, a woman he didn’t really remember. He hadn’t met you yet in 1973, unfortunately it would be a long while before he met you. And besides, he didn’t have time to search for you, he only had enough time for his mission. 

He could only hold onto the hope that he would see you again in the future, if he could change things for the better- if he could finally do something right. 

You were his motivation through dealing with younger versions of Charles and Eric, through all the missteps and mistakes, he tried his best to not lose hope. 

One last chance, after the mess that was Paris, this intervention was the only possibility of setting things right. 

They had to prevent Raven from killing Trask at this ridiculous anti-mutant presentation. Logan was inclined to agree with Raven at this point, but he knew the outcome of that decision and it was one he couldn’t live with. 

He and Hank made their way through the large crowds as Hank pushed Charles’ wheelchair, all focused only on their task at hand. Logan scanned the crowd, looking for Mystique despite the fact that Charles would be the only one able to find her. 

A voice met his ears, one that made his spine go rod straight. A voice he had unconsciously trained himself to seek out over years. 

“I really don’t want to be here,” the voice grumbled. 

Logan whipped his head to the left so quickly that if it was possible he probably would have given himself whiplash. 

It was you. 

His heart pounded harder than it had in the entirety of his two hundred something years. 

He stopped dead in his tracks and it was a force of will to not stare at you with his mouth hanging open. 

You looked different, but the same. You were younger obviously, your hairstyle and clothes were completely different, but that was you. 

His hand ached with the need to hold you, just one more time. 

“Please, I get extra credit for attending this thing and I can’t fail my government class,” the woman who he assumed was your friend whined as she clutched at your wrist. 

He did a mental tally in his head. Of course, he should’ve remembered that in the early seventies you were in a college not too far from Washington DC. It really wasn’t a huge coincidence that you would be here, but still it felt monumental. 

You looked over at her and huffed in resignation. 

God, you were cute, he thought. 

“Besides, maybe you can meet a handsome guy here. That would lift your spirits, wouldn’t it?” your friend said as she wiggled her eyebrows at you. 

You rolled your eyes and said, “This isn’t a bar, Jenna. This is anti-mutant government propaganda bullshit.” 

As did so often, he agreed with you. 

She pouted at you. “Well what if I promise to take you to a bar right after this ends?” 

You looked over at her in exasperated fondness and let her pull you forward, closer to where Logan and Hank stood in the crowd. 

Hank was saying something to him, something he didn’t hear - his attention entirely on you, and he snapped his head back to Hank as he shook his shoulder. 

“What?” Logan snapped. 

“Who are you looking at? Do you see Raven?” Hank asked. 

Logan took a deep breath and said, “No. I’m looking at my wife.” 

“Oh no,” Hank muttered. 

“Logan you can’t-“

”It’s not safe for her here,” Logan growled. 

————————————————-

YOUR POV

“Look, that guy is looking at you,” Jenna whispered in your ear. 

You followed her line of sight and saw the most handsome man you’d ever seen. 

He was exactly your type and in tight jeans to boot. He was huge- tall and extremely muscular. His dark hair was the kind of neat disheveled that begged you to run your fingers through it. His eyes were hidden by sunglasses but you could feel his intense gaze through them. 

“Holy shit he’s good looking,” you murmured and your friend giggled. 

He looked over at who you assumed was his friend and you continued to take him in. You weren’t sure you’d ever checked out a stranger in such a blatant manner before. There was something about him so inviting, despite his tense posture and intense demeanor, that your mouth was practically watering. 

“The guy next to him is cute too. Maybe we should go talk to them,” Jenna said. 

You tore your eyes from the object of your lust, and looked at the man next to him. He was cute in a nerdy way- exactly Jenna’s type. There was a third man with them, he was in a wheelchair and had his fingers to his temple as he scanned the crowd clearly in search of something or someone important. 

“I think they’re coming to us,” you said as the nerdy guy walked towards you. 

But unfortunately, the one you wanted to come closer didn’t, he stayed with his companion in the wheelchair and bent down to whisper something in his ear. 

“Hey ladies,” the man in glasses said as he approached you and Jenna. 

She immediately began to smile and twirl her hair around her finger as she spoke with him eagerly. 

He introduced himself as Hank and you shook his hand and introduced yourself as well, but your eyes continued to drift behind him to the other man, the one who you felt an inexplicable tug toward. 

“What about your friend?” you asked, your words an interruption to whatever Hank had been saying to Jenna. 

Hank looked stressed, but you looked back at the large man only a stone's throw away. 

He looked up and made eye contact with you, he must have taken his sunglasses off while you weren’t paying attention. Never before had you felt so stripped bare by just meeting a man’s eyes, there was a whirlwind of emotions within them- something akin to familiarity, possibly even love, and hunger. 

It took several moments of drowning in his gaze before you regained your wits about you. You smirked at him. 

He crossed his arms over his chest, which made him appear even larger as his muscles flexed. He raised a brow at you, but his lips were upturned in a small smile as if he was smiling despite himself. 

You crooked a finger at him, an invitation to come closer. 

He smiled and shook his head slightly, almost as if he were reprimanding himself but also couldn’t help himself. He turned his head and said something to his friend in the wheelchair before he strutted over to you. 

Every long stride he took towards you led to a tightening in your chest. It wasn’t fear, no, it was yearning. There was something inside you that wanted- no, needed, to know him. 

Your instincts were all wrong, he looked like a predator closing in on his prey, something about him sharp and animalistic as he approached you, and yet you felt at ease, intrigued, safe. 

“Hi,” you breathed out as he reached you. He smirked and stood a bit closer than would be normal for a stranger, but you didn’t mind at all as you looked up at his towering figure. 

He introduced himself in a low gravelly voice that sent a shiver down your spine and hearing his name was like an answer to a question you didn’t even know you’d been asking. 

Logan. 

You told him your name and he had this secret smile as if he already knew what you were going to say. 

He repeated your name, and something in you changed forever at the sound of it on his lips. 

“How come you didn’t wanna come say hi?” You asked teasingly. 

He looked at you and you felt more at home than ever before, which you knew sounded insane, but you couldn’t deny the way he made you feel. 

“Oh I wanted to,” he said and warmth filled you as you smiled at him. 

“Logan,” Hank hissed as he elbowed him. 

You’d honestly forgotten that you and Logan weren’t the only two people in the world at that moment. You’d forgotten about Jenna, and Hank, and the teeming crowd of people around you. 

“I know,” Logan replied to Hank in a grumpy tone that made you huff a small laugh. 

“Listen, I know this is going to sound crazy, but you need to leave. This isn’t safe,” Logan said fervently as he placed a large hand gently on your upper arm. 

You scrunched your brows at him in confusion. 

“Is this some kind of ploy to get me to leave with you?” You joked. 

He chuckled, the sound from deep in his chest, and you grinned. 

“If only,” he said. “No, pretty girl, I have to stay here.”

“I’m sorry, I’m confused,” you said. 

His thumb rubbed up and down your arm in a way that was both comforting and familiar. 

He glanced over at your friend, and as he saw that she was deep in conversation with Hank, he leaned closer to you in order to whisper in your ear. 

“This isn’t a safe place for mutants,” he murmured, urgency in his voice. 

You pulled back enough to look into his eyes, shock evident in your expression. 

“How do you know-“ you gasped quietly. 

He shook his head, “I’m one too, I can explain everything later, but please- for your own safety sweetheart, please leave.” 

You met his gaze and something about the urgency and care you found in his eyes made you believe him. 

“I suppose I’ll take your word for it. There’s a bar across town called McClarin’s, will you meet me there tonight? You can buy me a drink and explain all this weirdness.” You said. 

There was a flash of something akin to sadness in his eyes, but he gave you a tight smile and said, “Of course, I’ll be there. I’d do anything you ask.” 

You believed him. 

So you turned your head to your friend and said, “Jenna, we’re leaving.” 

You ignored her protests and stood on your tiptoes and pressed a kiss to Logan’s cheek. 

His hazel eyes fluttered closed, as if he were savoring the feeling of your lips against his skin. 

“Until tonight,” you said as you slipped your hand in Jenna’s. He nodded in agreement and you turned and walked away from him. 

“Why are we leaving?” Jenna complained. 

“They’re going to meet us at the bar later, we can watch the broadcast on the TV,” you said. 

She huffed but agreed as you led her out of the crowd and towards safety. 

A little while later you sat at the bar with Jenna- you ate pretzels and nursed a beer, and watched the news. 

Logan had been right, it was a dangerous situation for mutants. 

Tears filled your eyes and your heart dropped into your stomach as you watched as Logan was massacred by Magneto. His body was violently filled with pieces of metal and then thrown so far the cameras didn’t catch where he landed. 

He had to be dead, no one survived something like that. He saved your life and then didn’t survive the fight he protected you from. 

None of the news outlets had any information on your mysterious savior. 

You spent the evening calling both hospitals and morgues and no one had any knowledge of Logan or even a John Doe that matched his description. 

Weeks went by with no news. There was a hole in your heart, which seemed ridiculous considering you’d only met him once, but there was something about a promise unfulfilled. 

There was a feeling as if your future had been altered completely, as if Logan was supposed to be a part of it but now he never would be. 

————————————————-

Your mutant ability to heal others and yourself led you to work in a hospital as a nurse after you completed all of your schooling. 

Years passed and you met Storm when she literally landed in your hospital, as in she was thrown by an enemy and crashed through the ceiling. 

You stared at her in shock, then jumped towards her and used your powers to heal the gash in her stomach where blood had already begun pooling. She thanked you before flying off into battle once more. 

Once the fight was won, Storm came back and asked you to come with her to Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters. 

You were intrigued and soon found yourself as a professor of health sciences, part time school nurse, and an X-Man on the side. You weren’t much of a fighter, during missions you really mostly hung back and healed the injured X-Men as well as any civilians fought in the crossfire. 

It was a fulfilling life, one you enjoyed immensely, but something always felt like it was missing. You dated a bit but being so busy prevented anything deep. 

There was no spark, no instant connection with anyone like there had been with Logan. You supposed it really was a once in a lifetime experience. 

It didn’t help that you weren’t interested in anyone romantically that you worked with. Storm, who had quickly become a great friend, encouraged you to give Hank a chance when he pursued you. You tried, he was nice, but it just wasn’t love, and after a few months you ended it. Luckily you were able to remain as friends. 

Time passed and Professor X pointed out to you that you didn’t appear to age. At first you brushed him off as ridiculous, but eventually consented to let Jean run tests on you. 

As it turned out, your ability to heal yourself extended to things such as diseases and life’s natural course of aging. 

Eternity yawned its horrid mouth open before you and the loneliness of it threatened to swallow you whole. 

You took a leave of absence to avoid others seeing you in the midst of an existential crisis. You traveled for a couple of months, took time to see the world in a way you never had before, met beautiful strangers, and came to terms with the fact that it was likely you would never die, that any connections you did make would die long before you were ever ready. 

You decided to make the most of life, embrace the joy and the hurt, and returned home. 

As soon as you walked through the door of the mansion, everything felt different, but perhaps it was you that was changed so irrevocably. 

You made your way towards Professor X’s office and literally ran into a man as he walked out. 

“Ugh,” you groaned as your face squished into a broad chest. The body you slammed into was so sturdy the man didn’t even stumble, he merely placed large hands on your shoulders to steady you. 

“Woah there, speedy. You alright?” A deep voice said. Something about that voice tickled something in the back of your brain, a memory from years ago. 

“Sorry!,” you exclaimed as you stepped back and looked up to see his face. 

“Logan,” you breathed out in surprise as you finally saw him. He looked nearly the same as all those years ago. His hair and clothes were slightly different, but it was definitely him. He was as handsome as the day you lost him.

He raised a brow in confusion as he looked at you. 

“Have we met?” He asked. 

Your heart dropped into your stomach. The man of your dreams, the man you thought had died and yet you had continued to pine over for years, was standing before you and didn’t remember you. He didn’t remember meeting you, an experience that had been so cataclysmic in your life but apparently unimpressionable in his. 

“Yes, many years ago,” you breathed out. 

He looked you up and down and said, “Well, I really wish I remembered that.” 

You huffed a laugh to cover up the ache in your heart as you looked down at your feet. You told him your name as his hands finally slipped from your shoulders, you mourned the loss of his touch. 

As he repeated your name in that gravelly tone your heart thumped harder in your chest, despite yourself. 

“I don’t remember anything before a few years ago,” he said. 

“Oh?” You asked. Maybe it wasn’t that you were forgettable, it was just that he didn’t remember anything. 

“What happened?” You breathed out. 

Confusion and echoes of pain clouded his gorgeous hazel eyes. “I don’t remember, but I know it was painful,” he said. 

You placed a hand on his arm in comfort and said, “Maybe the professor can help you figure it out.” 

He nodded, “Not sure if I’ll be sticking around long enough. Being on a team isn’t really my thing.” 

“Sure it’s not,” you teased with a wink, thinking back to the team he was clearly a part of back when you met him. 

He grumbled something you didn’t quite catch at the same time Charles came out of his office to greet you. 

You bid Logan goodbye as you followed Charles into his office to catch up after your extended absence. 

Your heart still pounded from meeting Logan and you wore a grin you couldn’t prevent for several minutes. 

And to your delight, you found out later in the day that Logan decided to stay. You weren’t sure what the deciding factor was, but you were happy all the same. 

Maybe things would fall into place, perhaps your future could end up brighter than previously anticipated. 

————————————————-

LOGAN’S POV

Logan awoke, the same song playing on the radio, your song. He lurched out of the bed and stumbled out of the room. As he opened the door wonder filled him as he realized he was in the mansion. 

Children bustled past him as they went to their classes. Friends and family that were long since passed in his future smiled and waved at him as he walked through his home eyes full of wonder. 

It had worked, all the effort and pain had been worth it, everything was as it should be. The only question that remained was you. Where were you? 

He made his way to Charles’ office and sighed in relief when he saw him safe and alive. 

His old friend welcomed him back to the future, a better future. 

“Where is she?” He breathed out as Charles read his mind, getting a glimpse of his past. 

“She’s here, she’s safe, but Logan you should know-“ 

At that moment you walked into Charles’ office and if Logan wasn’t already sitting he would’ve fallen to his knees. He’d never seen such a beautiful sight. 

He breathed out your name like a prayer and you looked over at him. He didn’t even register the look on your face, he’d already made his way across the room and wrapped you in his arms. 

“Logan,” you squeaked out. “What the hell?” 

He lifted you up and buried his face in your neck. 

“Can’t breathe,” you huffed as you pushed on his shoulders in an attempt to get him to release you from the vice hold he had you in. 

He put you down and looked down at you, placed a hand on the side of your gorgeous face- it wasn’t until now that he took in your expression. 

“What’s wrong?” He asked. 

You pulled back from him again, even went so far as to push his hand from you and took a step back. 

“What’s gotten into you? Why the hell do you think you can just-” You asked in confusion, irritation coloring your tone. 

He cut you off as he blurted out, “What? I don’t understand-“ 

“Logan, in this timeline you and her broke up,” Charles said. 

“Broke up?” Logan asked with raised eyebrows, the words lacked any meaning to him. There was no future in which he and you were not together. It was inconceivable. 

“That’s ridiculous,” Logan said. At the same time you asked, “this timeline?” 

You both looked at one another in confusion. 

“Sit, both of you, let me explain,” Charles said. 

Logan sat and watched your expression change from suspiciousness to utter shock as Charles explained that Logan was from a different future, a different timeline, and had replaced the Logan you knew. 

He didn’t remember anything after 1973, other than the horrible future he had come from. But he did remember the first time you met that day in Washington DC. Although for him that was far from the first time you’d met.

“That’s a lot of information. I think you broke my brain- that’s so confusing,” you breathed out. 

Logan’s heart threatened to beat out of his chest as he tried to gauge your reaction. 

You turned to him. “So in this future I’m guessing you and I are together?” 

Logan nodded. 

“Well not in this one,” you muttered and stood to leave. 

“Wait, princess - talk to me,” Logan pleaded as he grabbed your hand. 

You turned back and glared at him. “Logan, I don’t care which version of you it was, you broke my heart and I have no interest in sitting here listening to any more of this.” 

You yanked your hand from his and stormed out of the office. You left him feeling helpless and empty. 

He looked over at the Professor. “What happened?” He asked. 

“It’s still fresh. The others have found her crying multiple times over the last few days. I tried not to pry but-“ 

“You went into her head,” Logan guessed and Charles nodded. 

He prepared himself for the worst and the flicker of hope in his chest began to gutter. He would be devastated if after all of this he couldn’t be with you. 

“The two of you have been together for about five years, were close friends for years before that, but she ended it about a week ago during an argument. She wanted to have a child and you didn’t,” Charles explained. 

“That’s it? She wants a baby? I’ll give her a baby. I’ll give her whatever she wants, the version of me from this timeline must be a goddamn idiot,” Logan said sharply. 

Charles chuckled. “I spoke to the other you yesterday, he had come to the same conclusion. It wasn’t that he didn’t want a child, he was just letting his fears get in the way.” 

“I have to go talk to her,” Logan practically growled as he stood and stalked out of the office in search of you. 

It wasn’t difficult to find you. He had memorized the sound of your heartbeat, your scent, and was all too familiar with the salty tang of your tears. 

He found you in a bedroom he assumed was yours, he knocked and let himself in despite your garbled yell of, “Go away!” 

It was clear this was the makeshift room you’d moved into after the break up, your decorations were all in boxes, your clothes piled everywhere and spilled out of drawers, and everything all together more messy and haphazard than he knew you liked to keep things. 

You sat curled in the bed as tears streamed down your sweet face. 

“Go away Lo,“ you sniffled as you quickly wiped your tears away. 

“Oh, my sweet girl-“ Logan said in a gentle voice only you knew. 

“No, Logan I’m not yours anymore,” the words were weak and he could tell you didn’t even really mean them. 

He came closer to the bed and you glared at him but didn’t say a word as he sat down and pulled you into his lap. 

You sunk into his embrace and buried your face in his neck. He ran his hand up and down your back soothingly. 

Your fingers tangled into his shirt, your breaths were shaky, and a few more tears managed to escape. His heart ached at the pain you were in. 

“I changed the timeline of our universe to be with you. I’m not gonna let anything stand in our way. So, you want a baby, I’ll give you a baby. I’ll give you as many babies as you want. I’ll give you anything you want, I’d do anything for you. I love you,” he said and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. 

“But-“ 

“And before you ask, Charles told me that the Logan in this future had come to the same conclusion and was planning on making things right with you today. In every timeline, I want to make you happy.” 

He wiped the tears from your face and pressed a kiss to your forehead. 

“Did we ever talk about kids in your future?” You asked in a soft vulnerable voice. 

He held you tighter. 

“Only once, but it wasn’t a possibility for us, that future was too dangerous. So dangerous that I lost you. I wouldn’t survive losing you again.” 

At the pain in his voice you pulled back enough to meet his gaze. 

“Tell me about that future,” you asked gently. 

And so he did, every awful part of it as he held you in his arms and reminded himself that this was real, that you were safe and alive, that this was his new future. 

You wiped the tear that slipped down his face as you looked up at him in awe. 

“You did all that for me? For us?” You asked in wonder. 

“I’d do anything for you,” he said fervently. You placed your hand on the side of his face and his eyes fluttered closed as he finally, finally received affection from you after so long. 

He nuzzled his face into your hand, pressed his lips against the pulse point at your wrist, finally let himself sink into your intoxicating presence. 

You slipped your hand into his hair and pressed a featherlight kiss to his lips. The weight of time without you pressed in on him and his self control snapped, with one hand on the back of your head and the other on your waist, he crushed you against his body and kissed you with desperation. 

He wanted to consume you, to sink inside you, to never be apart from you again. 

You made a high pitched sweet sound of surprise before you kissed him just as fervently. He groaned into your mouth at the taste of you as his tongue slipped into your mouth. 

It was absolute heaven. 

This kiss could have gone on for hours or perhaps only seconds, he didn't know, no time was enough with you. 

You pulled back and looked at him. “I love you,” you said. 

“I love you,” he groaned and pressed his lips to yours repeatedly. 

You breathed out a soft giggle at his expression of adoration. 

He tilted his head back to look you deep in the eyes once more and said, “Let’s make a baby.” 

You looked flustered and he thought it was the sweetest thing he’d ever seen. 

“Right now? I-“ 

“I’ve missed you so much, sweetheart. I want to. Wanna give you want you want,” he moaned as he kissed you again. 

“Missed you too,” you whimpered as his lips drifted across your jaw and down your throat. 

————————————————-

YOUR POV

It was all consuming. He was everywhere all at once as he laid you on your back and pressed himself on top of you. 

The weight and heat of him was both comforting and intoxicating. The last few hours had given you emotional whiplash, but it was Logan. 

Apparently he was your soulmate no matter the timeline. He kissed you as if he were drowning and you were his breath of fresh air. He said everything you’d been dreaming of, and more as he declared his love and promised to fulfill your every desire. 

There was nothing the two of you couldn’t overcome as a team. You loved him and he loved you, and maybe that was all that mattered. 

As he bit down on your neck, all other thoughts flew from your head, it was just him. You and him- forever. There would be no long lonely life, he would be by your side always. 

“Logan,” you gasped and he groaned against your neck as he continued to nip and suck at the skin there. He loved to mark you as his and the thought made your toes curl. 

As if he could read your mind, he said, “Tell me you’re mine.”

His tongue licked up the column of your throat and you panted, “I’m yours, Lo. Only yours.” 

“Marry me,” he murmured against your skin. 

‘What?” You breathed out as you placed your hands on either side of your face and pulled him back enough to meet his hazel gaze. His pupils were blown with a combination of love and lust which caused heat to fill your entire body. 

“Marry me,” he repeated, then pressed his lips to yours again. 

“Yes,” you gasped into his mouth. His fingers gripped your waist tighter as they slipped under your shirt and met your heated skin. 

“Let me make you mine forever,” he growled and you whimpered and nodded as you tugged at his t-shirt. 

He helped you pull it off him and you let out a soft groan as your hand explored his broad chest, then down his muscled torso as you followed the trail of hair that led to the vee partially hidden beneath his jeans. Your mouth watered as your hand reached his belt, and you saw the evidence of his desire for you straining against his pants. 

He snatched your hand right as you were about to reach his hardened length and you whined in frustration. 

“Please, Lo,” you breathed out and he smirked in that cocky way that made you want to either smack him or suck him off. 

“No, I’m gonna take my time with you, pretty girl,” he said as he pulled your shirt off, then immediately followed with removing your bra. You whimpered again at the feeling of his skin against yours as he leaned back down and kissed you. 

His lips trailed to your breasts and you moaned as he licked and suckled at your sensitive nipples. Your core heated and throbbed as you became slick with desire for him.

You gripped the muscles of his tensed shoulders as you wrapped your legs around his trim waist. 

You attempted to grind yourself against his hard cock but he bit down on your neck in reprimand. 

“Stop that,” he growled. 

You moaned in response and he chuckled darkly. Suddenly he sat up- and you squeaked in surprise at the sudden shift as he stood from the bed. Before you could respond, he yanked you to the edge of the bed and kneeled before you. 

“C’mon, be a good girl and I’ll reward you with my cock, I’ll fill you to the brim, give you a baby just like you want. You just have to be a good girl and let me make you come on my tongue, can you do that princess- hm?” 

You moaned at his words, nodding vigorously as he slid off your jeans and spread your legs before him. 

“Use your words,” he taunted as he rested your legs on his broad shoulders. 

His nose ran up, up, up the inside of your thigh until it reached your panties. He groaned deeply as he took in a deep breath- turned near feral at the scent of your arousal. 

“Yes, yes, I’ll be good, please- just please, Lo,” you babbled. 

Another deep noise from the back of his throat came from the sounds of your sweet begging as he used his teeth to pull your panties off. 

You gasped as his warm wet tongue licked up your gushing pussy, all the way from your hole to your throbbing clit. 

“You this wet just for me, princess?” He said, the words muffled against your cunt. He began flicking his tongue over the most sensitive part of you and you keened. 

Your back arched and you plunged your fingers into his hair, your fingers tangled in and gripped the brown and silver strands. 

“Yes, for you, only for you, always for you,” rambled. 

The squelching sounds of your cunt as he pressed two fingers inside mixed with your heavy pants and his groans to create the most erotic symphony you’d ever heard. 

Your whines reached a fever pitch as his fingers curdled and pressed against the spongy spot inside you that made you forget anything but his name as his tongue continued to flick and swirl around your clit. 

“Logan!” you moaned. 

“Missed this pretty pussy,” he growled. 

Heat filled you as electricity prickled up your spine. You writhed on the bed and pressed your cunt closer to his mouth.  

One of his large hands smacked your hip lightly in reprimand. He then laid his arm down across your waist to hold you still. 

“Thought you were gonna be a good girl, or do I need to stop,” he teased as he looked up at you and you moaned. 

You slick coated his lips and beard, his hair was disheveled from your hands, and his gorgeous eyes were blown with desire. 

“No, I’ll be good, promise,” you panted. 

He smiled at you, the kind of smile a predator gives their prey before they pounce, and licked you once again. 

You were completely at his mercy, pinned to the bed, his fingers inside you and his mouth on your cunt. 

You dug your heels into the muscles of his back in an attempt to urge him on.  

The tension inside you built and built as his tongue continued its ministrations. 

“M’gonna come, Lo,” you whined. 

“Good girl, come for me,” he replied then sucked on your clit. 

The pleasure was so intense as his thick fingers continued to hit that spot inside you that lightning ran up your spine and you came with a moan of his name. 

He continued to lick until you yanked on his hair in an attempt to pull his head away as his arm across your hips kept you pinned to the bed and wiggling away wasn’t an option. 

He chuckled darkly as he pressed a final kiss to your bundle of pleasure then looked up at you. 

“Did I do good? You gonna reward me with your cock, daddy?” you asked. 

There was a heartbeat before he replied, where you worried you went too far as he looked at you in surprise.

But then came his response, “Fuck. Yes, sweetheart, you’re perfect. Daddy’s gonna give you his cock, gonna fill you up real good.” 

You whimpered in desire as he stood. You sat up and immediately began to yank at his belt. 

He smirked as he looked down on you- watched you in your desperation to reach his thick cock. 

Your mouth watered as you won your fight with his belt and zipper and yanked the jeans down enough to get a glimpse of his gloriously hard dick. 

Logan finally took pity on you and helped you to remove his pants altogether, which left him wonderfully bare before you. 

Good god, he was sexy- his rippling muscles glistened with sweat and you wanted to lick every inch of his skin. 

He lifted your face with a hand on your chin so you would meet his eyes once more. 

At the heat in his gaze you felt yourself gush even more. 

His thumb brushed across your bottom lip and you obediently opened your mouth. He pressed his thumb into your mouth and you moaned softly as you sucked on it. 

“Shit, you’re killing me, pretty girl. Lay back, I need to be inside you,” he growled. 

You let him pull his thumb out of your mouth and looked up at him through your lashes. 

“Can I taste you first?” you asked sweetly. 

His eyes rolled back into his head and he gripped your chin tighter. 

“Course you can, my good girl gets whatever she wants,” he said then led your face closer to his cock. 

You wanted to live in this moment forever, your head fuzzy with ecstasy only he could provide and empty of anything but him as you were eager to please him. You wanted to be his - in every possible way. 

You wrapped one hand around the base of his cock and pressed a kiss to the tip as you looked up at him. His breaths stuttered and power rushed to your head. You had this big strong man literally in the palm of your hand as you gave him pleasure that nearly brought him to his knees as your tongue peeked out and you licked the sensitive underside of his tip. 

He groaned your name and that prompted you on as you opened your mouth and began to take in some of his length and suckled gently. 

You moaned at the salty taste of him in your mouth, and took him in deeper as your hand worked in tandem. 

“You look so pretty like this,” he murmured. 

You rubbed your thighs together in an desperate but fruitless attempt to generate friction as your clit throbbed again with need. There was nothing as delicious as the grunts and groans Logan made as you took him deeper into your mouth. 

His hand slipped from the side of your face to cradle the back of your head and you moaned around his length as he led you to take him deeper into your throat. You took deep breaths through your nose as you swallowed him, taking him in far enough that you no longer needed to use your hand and instead used your hand to gently cup his balls. 

“That’s it, doing so good f’me,” Logan groaned. 

The musky scent of him filled your nostrils as your nose brushed against the wiry hairs at the base of his cock. His other hand began to flick and pinch at your nipple and you moaned around his length. 

His size was substantial, but you were used to it at this point and your head emptied, only Logan present in your mind, as you let him guide your mouth up and down on his cock as you sucked him deeper. 

It was everything you wanted and more, until he pulled you off him. A string of saliva connected from your bottom lip to his tip as you gasped for air and looked up at him. 

He wiped away the spit as he murmured out, “fuckin’ perfect.” 

You whimpered as he surged forward and kissed you, near feral with desire. 

“Logan,” you gasped as he manhandled you further back onto the bed and laid himself on top of you. 

He continued to kiss you, his lips moved against yours and you surged closer- your chin bumped his as you kissed him urgently. His tongue explored your mouth and electricity filled you. Your body was filled with desperation as you wrapped your legs around his trim waist. 

“Need you inside me, please daddy, need your huge cock inside me, need you to fill me up,” you pleaded as he began to kiss and suck on your neck. You knew there would be bruises there tomorrow, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care - it was only more evidence that you belonged to him. 

He chuckled darkly and said, “You sound so pretty when you beg, princess. Don’t worry, daddy’s got you.” He reached down and lined his cock up to your desperate hole and you whined in relief. 

Slowly, so slowly, Logan pressed himself inside you. Inch by inch he sunk his cock deep inside your cunt and the feeling was unlike any other. 

He caged you in with his large arms on either side of your head and you pulled his face down for another desperate kiss. 

Once he was seated fully inside you, it was as if all the franticness of the moment dissipated and you both felt the need to savor the moment, to extend it for as long as possible, to live in this experience of perfection for eternity. 

There were times that sex with Logan was rough and animalistic, but you both knew that this wouldn’t be one of those times. This was making love - this was a reunion, a reconciliation, a healing of hurts, a fusion of souls. 

You looked deep into his eyes and found home. 

You locked your ankles around his waist to keep him close, the desire to be as close to him as possible all consuming. His deep breaths pressed his chest against yours and there was nothing in the world but you and him. 

One of his hands stroked your arm as you reached up and placed your hand on the side of his face. The other rested against his shoulder as you gripped the muscles you found there. 

You caressed his cheek and ran your fingers in his beard. 

“I love you,” you whispered. 

His eyes became bright with emotion, he had the prettiest eyes you’d ever seen- dark green with rings of brown that held unconditional love for you. 

He murmured your name and it sounded like a prayer of devotion as it fell from his plush lips. He pressed a tender kiss to your lips. 

He pulled back enough to press his forehead against yours. 

“I love you more than anything,” he replied. 

You felt perfectly incandescently happy, so wonderfully full of him, and despite both of your desires for this moment to never end, you also needed him to move inside you. 

“Please, Lo,” you breathed out. 

He knew exactly what you meant and he braced his forearms on either side of your head and pulled his hips back. Logan pulled back enough that only the tip of his cock remained inside you, before he sunk back in slowly. 

Your breaths mingled with his and it felt as if the two of you were on an island of your own- as if you were the only two people in the world. 

There was a feeling of connectedness, as if the puzzle pieces had all finally fallen into place, as your heartbeat sped and began to beat in time with his. 

“You feel so good, so big,” you breathed out as he continued his slow steady pace. Again, and again, and again he pushed himself inside you. 

He moaned and kissed you again, this time messy and more urgent. 

The string of fate that connected the two of you pulled taunt, became stronger as a result of your union, as you declared to one another your infinite commitment and love. 

You clenched down as he increased his pace. 

“That’s it, that’s my good girl, so fuckin’ tight,” he said, his lips moved against yours as he imprinted the praise into your mouth. 

There was a delicious feeling of fullness as you felt stretched and stuffed to the brim with his cock, as your heart threatened to burst at the care he showed you. Your hands ran across his arms and shoulders, around and down to his back where your nails dug into the sweat slicked muscles you found there. 

He grunted and again increased his pace. Your thighs tightened around his waist and you held onto him more securely as he pistoned his cock inside you. 

There was no better feeling than when he was inside you. His cock repeatedly hit that spot deep within that made you see stars and you felt that familiar burning inside you begin to grow. 

There was no possible way to be closer to him. His face was buried in your throat, his chest pressed against yours and every thrust brushed your sensitive nipples against the hair there, your puffy clit felt shockwaves of every thrust as his groin grinded against it, the slick of your arousal coated you both- there was no possible way to be closer to him, and yet somehow you needed more. 

“Daddy, please,” you gasped. 

“Mhm, is this what my pretty girl needs?” 

He shoved a hand between your bodies and began to press tight circles against your throbbing clit. 

“Yes!” You let out a high pitched whine as you threw your head back let out a low groan as you clenched down on his thick cock. 

The squelching sounds of your joining bodies should’ve made you embarrassed, but white hot pleasure eroded all your senses. 

��C’mon pretty baby, come for daddy and then I’ll fill you up, I’ll make you full of me, make sure everyone knows you’re mine with my ring on your finger and my baby in your stomach. S’that what you want? Huh? You want everyone to know you’re mine?” he growled in your ear. 

“God, y-yes, Logan- fuck,” you stuttered out. 

He continued to fuck into you with those long harsh thrusts, the pace quick and intense as his finger drew tight circles on your overstimulated clit. It balanced you on the line of pleasure and pain, but his words pushed you over the edge. 

You gasped loudly, “M’gonna come!”

He grabbed your face and said, “Look at me.” 

White hot pleasure exploded through you. Your eyes fluttered open and you stared deep into his intense gaze as you came on his cock. 

He groaned along with you as you clenched down on him. 

“Shit, that’s my good girl,” he said and kissed you sloppily. 

You keened at the praise, your head fuzzy with ecstacy. Your nails again dug into his back as he continued to pump himself inside you as he chased his own release. 

His breaths came harder as his sweat slicked skin slid against yours. His hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise as his pace somehow increased. 

There was nothing you could do but take it. This-this was bliss, this was perfection. 

“Want you to fill me up, want you to come in me, please Lo,” you whined. 

He groaned and with one more deep thrust he pushed himself as far inside you as possible and came. He filled you up, with stuttered breaths and hips, he came until he had nothing else to give. 

You pulled your head back from his neck, where you had bit down- hard, and pressed a kiss to his lips. 

You could’ve sworn that the thread of fate, the connection between the two of you glowed in the aftermath. 

With a grunt, he flipped over onto his back as he held you tight, and kept you against him and pulled you on top of him as he kept his cock inside you. 

You rested your head against his chest. 

“Can we just stay like this for a while?” you asked. 

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head as his large hand ran up and down your back.  

“Of course, princess. Anything you want.” 

And so you did. After all, time was a minuscule thing when the entirety of a new future together stretched before you. 

[novaursa]

The Broken Crown (1/2)

- Summary: Aegon the Conqueror's youngest sister, Y/N Targaryen, once bethrohed to Torrhen Stark, is forced into a marriage with her brother after he calls off her engagement out of jealousy. Struggling with her lost future and the life she never wanted, she repeatedly refuses Aegon's attempts to consummate the marriage. When she tries to escape to Essos on her dragon, Visenya intercepts her, and Aegon, in an act of control, chains her dragon to prevent any further rebellion, leaving her feeling trapped and broken.

- Paring: sister!reader/Aegon I Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 6 200+

- Next part: 2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @fiction-fanfic-reader @fireandblood-mharmie @poisonedsultana

- A/N: Unexpected post. Let's see how it goes.

The wind howls outside your chambers, filling the air with the distant sounds of restless dragons, their cries melding with the deep, rolling growl of the sea beyond Dragonstone. The fire crackles in the hearth, sending flickers of light dancing across the walls. You sit alone, staring at the flickering flames, lost in thought. The glow reflects off the dark red and gold silk of your gown, the rich colors echoing the deep hues of Tesaerix's scales.

It has been weeks since your marriage to Aegon—your brother, your king—and yet your chambers remain cold. You know why he comes to you. You know what he desires. Yet every time, you turn him away, the bitterness of your broken future thick on your tongue.

You were supposed to be wed to Torrhen Stark, the former King in the North. A marriage of fire and ice, binding the Targaryens to the cold and ancient lineage of the Starks. You had imagined a life in the North, the fierce honor of the Starks, the warmth of a hearth shared between husband and wife, and the promise of a family. Torrhen would have been yours and yours alone. His loyalty and affection were clear in every letter, in every word whispered between couriers.

But Aegon... Aegon grew jealous. He called off the betrothal without a word to you, with a simple, royal command. And now, you sit here, a queen in name, yet more of a pawn than ever before.

The door to your chambers opens softly, the sound of boots upon stone barely audible over the crackling of the fire. You do not turn. You know who it is.

"Y/N," Aegon's voice rumbles low, rich with the quiet authority of a conqueror. He does not have to ask permission to enter; this is his castle, and you are his wife.

"You shouldn’t be here," you say quietly, your eyes still on the flames. "Not tonight."

"And yet, here I am." His voice is closer now, and you feel the heat of his presence behind you. "You’ve denied me time and time again."

You stand, your hands tightening into fists at your sides, still refusing to face him. "Because this was not meant to be. You took my future from me, Aegon. Torrhen was—" Your voice cracks, though you try to hold your composure. "I was meant to marry him. I was meant to be his only wife, to have his children. You stole that from me."

Aegon steps around to face you, his violet eyes, so like your own, burning with a mixture of frustration and something deeper. His silver hair, shining in the firelight, falls loosely about his shoulders, making him seem more a dragon than a man.

"You speak of duty as if you do not know it, sister," he says, his voice softer now, though no less commanding. "Do you truly believe you could have lived in the North? Away from your blood? Away from me?"

His words send a chill through you, a reminder of the bond that ties you both. You were born into the same fire, raised together, shared in the same dreams of conquest. But his love, twisted as it has become, feels like chains wrapping around your heart.

"I would have learned," you whisper, your throat tight. "For Torrhen, I would have made a home there."

"And you would have grown cold," Aegon replies, stepping closer, his hands reaching out to grasp your arms. "The North would have frozen the fire in your blood. You belong with me, Y/N. We were meant to rule together."

You yank your arms away from his grip, taking a step back, your eyes blazing. "No, Aegon. You and Visenya, you and Rhaenys, were meant to rule. I was an afterthought. You married me out of jealousy, not love. You couldn’t bear the thought of me in the arms of another man."

Aegon’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, you see the flicker of anger in his eyes. He steps forward again, but you hold your ground.

"You speak as though I do not care for you," he says, his voice dangerously low. "I made a banner in your honor. You fly your own colors, the colors of Tesaerix, because you are more than just my wife. You are my queen, my equal."

"I never asked for that," you snap, your voice rising, the pain and anger finally spilling over. "I never wanted a crown, Aegon. I wanted a life. You took that from me when you sent Torrhen away."

He is silent for a long moment, his eyes searching your face as if looking for some hint of the sister who once stood by his side, unwavering in her support. But that girl is gone now, replaced by a woman hardened by the reality of her fate.

"Perhaps," he says finally, his voice softer now, almost resigned. "But we cannot change the past. You are mine, Y/N. Whether you accept it or not."

You turn your back to him again, the weight of his words pressing down on you. You hear him move toward the door, his boots heavy on the stone floor. For a moment, you think he will leave. But then, his voice breaks the silence once more.

"One day, you will come to understand why I did what I did. And when that day comes, I will be here. Waiting."

The door closes behind him, the sound echoing in the stillness of your chambers. You are left alone once more, the fire burning low, its warmth doing little to chase away the cold that has settled deep in your bones.

You sink to the floor before the hearth, staring into the dying flames, and wonder if there will ever come a day when you can forgive him—if you even want to.

The grand hall of Dragonstone feels heavy with silence as you sit at the long, stone-carved table. The walls are adorned with tapestries depicting the glory of Old Valyria, the ancestors watching with cold, lifeless eyes. You sit between Rhaenys and Visenya, with Aegon at the head, his silver hair gleaming in the candlelight. The air is thick with the unspoken weight of your marriage, lingering over the table like a shadow.

The food before you remains untouched. Plates of roasted meats, rich gravies, and spiced wine fill the room with tempting aromas, but you have no appetite. Your mind is elsewhere, churning with thoughts of the future that was stolen from you. Torrhen’s face, sharp and distant like the North itself, lingers in your memory.

Visenya breaks the silence, her voice sharp and direct, as is her way. "Y/N," she says, her violet eyes piercing as they settle on you, "when will you finally do your duty to our brother?"

Her words hang in the air, and you feel the weight of everyone's gaze upon you. Rhaenys shifts beside you, her warm, gentle nature a silent contrast to Visenya's cold command. You take a slow breath, gripping the edge of your goblet, the cool metal pressing into your palm.

"If this is about duty, sister," you reply, your voice calm but edged with steel, "then Aegon should come to you. Isn’t that what you care for most, Visenya? Duty?"

Visenya’s eyes narrow, her lips a thin line. "It is our duty to secure the future of our house. You were born for this. You were married for this."

"I was married," you cut in, the words sharper than you intend, "because our brother couldn’t stomach the thought of another man having me." Your gaze flickers to Aegon, who has remained silent, watching the exchange with his usual unreadable expression. "Or is that something none of us are supposed to speak of?"

Rhaenys’ soft, musical voice tries to ease the tension. "We are family, Y/N. Aegon is trying to—"

"To what?" you interrupt, turning your gaze on her. "To make me love him as you do? If our brother seeks love and soft caresses, he should come to you, Rhaenys. You always give him what he desires, don’t you?"

Rhaenys flinches at the harshness of your tone, her eyes lowering to her untouched plate. You almost feel a pang of guilt for your words, but the storm of emotion inside you doesn’t let you stop.

Aegon’s gaze finally lifts from his plate, meeting yours. His violet eyes, usually so hard to read, flicker with something—anger? Hurt? Perhaps both. But he says nothing, allowing the silence to deepen, allowing you to stew in the consequences of your words.

Visenya’s voice cuts through again, colder than before. "You may think you are different from us, Y/N, but you are not. We all carry the same blood. We all have the same purpose. Do not forget that."

You push your chair back abruptly, the scraping of wood against stone breaking the silence. The sound echoes through the hall, reverberating off the high ceilings. You rise, standing tall, your hands clenched at your sides.

"I haven’t forgotten," you say, your voice bitter. "But perhaps I was never meant to be part of this."

Without another word, you turn and leave the table, your untouched meal forgotten behind you. You walk swiftly through the hall, your footsteps muffled by the heavy carpets, and once you pass the threshold, the cold air of Dragonstone greets you like a slap. It chills your skin, but you welcome it. It’s a reminder that despite everything, you are still free to make some choices. Even if only in small rebellions.

As you make your way down the corridor, the sounds of your siblings fade behind you. You are alone once more, with nothing but the distant cries of dragons and the pounding of your heart to accompany you.

The hall feels emptier once you’re gone, the echo of your departing footsteps swallowed by the vastness of the space. For a long moment, no one speaks. The air is filled with your absence, and the untouched food on your plate remains a quiet accusation of all that was left unsaid.

Aegon sits motionless, his hands resting on the table, fingers curled around the goblet he hasn’t touched. His shoulders slump slightly, the weight of something far heavier than a crown pressing down on him. His face, usually impassive and stern, is now unguarded, a mixture of frustration, pain, and an unfamiliar vulnerability etched into his features. The Conqueror, the dragon lord, looks fragile—broken, even.

Rhaenys watches him, her eyes full of concern, though she remains silent for once. Her gentle attempts to soothe the tension earlier had been met with resistance, and now she seems at a loss, her gaze flicking between Aegon and Visenya. Her hands rest lightly on her lap, fingers trembling just slightly as she resists the urge to reach for Aegon.

Visenya, on the other hand, is still as stone. Her lips are pressed into a thin line, and her eyes remain cold, unreadable. The eldest of you, always the embodiment of purpose, of resolve, watches Aegon closely but makes no move to comfort him. Her hands, wrapped around her knife and fork, remain steady, continuing her meal as though nothing had happened, though she chews slowly, her eyes calculating.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Aegon’s voice breaks the silence, though it is barely more than a whisper. "She hates me."

His words hang in the air, and for a moment, no one speaks. Aegon’s grip tightens around the goblet, and one can see the whiteness of his knuckles as though the tension might shatter the cup. His head is bowed, and for the first time, he looks… lost.

"She does not hate you," Rhaenys says softly, her voice thick with sympathy. "She’s angry. Hurt. But hate?" She shakes her head, her dark curls catching the firelight. "That is not what this is."

Aegon’s lips twitch, a bitter smile flickering at the corners. "She does not love me, Rhaenys. And she never will."

Visenya’s voice is sharp, cutting through the fragile moment like the edge of a blade. "Love is not why she was wed to you, brother. Love was never the purpose." She sets her knife and fork down deliberately, the clink of metal against the plate unnervingly calm in the face of Aegon’s turmoil. "You knew that."

Aegon’s head lifts, his eyes wet and shining with unspoken emotions. He looks at Visenya, his usually hard gaze pleading now, searching her face for some kind of answer. "But I wanted it," he says, the words rough, torn from somewhere deep inside him. "I wanted her to love me, as she would have loved Stark. Is that so wrong?"

Visenya’s expression doesn’t change. Her voice remains cold, unwavering. "You are her brother, her king. You were never meant to be her lover in the way you want."

Rhaenys, sensing the deepening wound, reaches across the table, her hand hovering just above Aegon’s arm. "She’s young still, Aegon," she says softly, her voice filled with her usual warmth. "She has not yet come to terms with her place. In time, perhaps…"

Aegon pulls away from her touch, his hand falling from the goblet to rest heavily on the table. "No," he mutters, shaking his head. "She will never come to terms with this. She will always look at me as if I am the one who destroyed her life." His voice breaks slightly, and he presses his palms into his eyes, as though trying to hold himself together, to keep the pain from spilling out.

"Then stop chasing her love," Visenya says, her voice devoid of sympathy. "Do your duty. Take her to your bed, sire her children, and end this farce of a romance you have created in your mind."

Aegon’s hands drop from his face, and he looks at her, stunned. "Is that all you see in this? Duty?"

Visenya’s eyes meet his, cold and unwavering. "That is all there ever was for us."

The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the crackle of the hearth. Aegon turns his gaze to the fire, his shoulders sagging even further under the weight of Visenya’s words. The great conqueror, the king who united the Seven Kingdoms, is reduced to this—a man who sought love from someone who could not give it.

Rhaenys, her heart breaking at the sight of her brother in such despair, shifts in her seat, but she knows that no words of hers will soothe him now. Aegon has always carried the burden of their dynasty alone, but tonight, it has grown too heavy, even for him.

"You have us," Rhaenys says quietly, though her voice trembles with emotion. "You will always have us, Aegon."

But Aegon does not respond. His eyes remain fixed on the flames, and for the first time in your life, you see him not as the Conqueror, not as the dragon lord who tamed the world, but as a man—lost and alone in a castle full of people who love him, yet none who can give him what he truly desires.

And so the meal continues in silence, the clatter of cutlery and the crackling fire the only sounds in the hall. The untouched plates before you all bear witness to the shattered remnants of your family’s fragile bonds, while outside, the wind and the sea howl against the ancient walls of Dragonstone.

The sea winds howl outside your chambers, the sound haunting and relentless, like the cry of some distant, wounded beast. You sit by the open window, gazing out into the dark night, the vast ocean stretching far beyond the horizon, endless and full of promise. Your mind wanders to Tesaerix, resting in her lair below. You imagine her golden and cream scales shimmering in the moonlight, the crimson undertones beneath them gleaming like freshly spilled blood. She is your escape, your one chance at freedom.

You toy with the thought, turning it over and over in your mind—leaving this place. Far from Dragonstone, from Westeros, from the suffocating weight of duty and broken promises. Essos calls to you like a whisper on the wind, a distant land where dragons are still revered and feared, where you could carve out a life for yourself far from Aegon’s reach. You could mount Tesaerix tonight, ride her across the Narrow Sea and never look back.

The idea pulls at you, tempting you more with every passing moment. To be free of this cursed marriage, free of the bitter silence and the constant reminders of what you’ve lost. But it’s not just the present that haunts you—it’s the past, the memories of a love that was torn from you before it had the chance to bloom.

Your mind drifts back to Torrhen Stark, the man you were meant to marry. The King in the North, a man of honor and quiet strength, so different from the fire and chaos of your family. You think of the first time you met him, after he had bent the knee to Aegon. He had refused to take you as a war prize, refused to make you his by conquest, despite the whispers of your brothers. He had chosen to see you as something more, as someone worth knowing, worth loving.

You remember the way his eyes had softened when he looked at you, the way his gruff voice had gentled whenever he spoke your name. It had been a brief time, but intense—your feelings for him had grown quickly, like a wildfire racing through a dry forest. You’d fallen in love with him, hard and fast, and he with you. It was supposed to be an alliance not only of fire and ice, but of hearts.

You can still hear his deep, steady voice, promising you a future in the North. A future where you would be his only wife, where you would bear his children, where you could have the kind of life you dreamed of—one filled with love, respect, and loyalty. It had seemed perfect, a rare gift for someone of your blood, born into a family where duty always outweighed desire.

But then Aegon had taken that from you. He had changed his mind as suddenly as a storm sweeping over the sea, without explanation, without reason. One moment, your future with Torrhen had been certain, and the next, it was gone. Aegon had called off the betrothal, declaring that you were to remain in Dragonstone and marry him instead.

Your world had shattered in that instant. The life you had planned with Torrhen, the love you had begun to build, all of it ripped away before it had the chance to take root. You had cried out, fought against it, pleaded with Aegon to reconsider, but his decision was final. The bond between fire and ice, the life you had dreamed of in the North, vanished like smoke in the wind.

The memory of Torrhen’s face, when you told him of Aegon’s decision, still haunts you. His features had hardened, the quiet grief in his eyes breaking your heart all over again. He had not blamed you; how could he, when you had been as much a victim of your brother’s jealousy as he had? But the pain in his silence had cut deeper than any words could have.

You wonder, sometimes, what might have been. What your life would be like now, had Aegon not interfered. You can imagine yourself standing beside Torrhen in Winterfell’s great hall, the warmth of a fire crackling in the hearth, the cold winds of the North howling outside but unable to touch you. You would have had a home there. A real home, with Torrhen by your side, with the love you had begun to build blossoming into something strong and unbreakable.

But here, in this cold, dark castle, you are alone. You are Aegon’s wife, yes, but in name only. There is no love here, only duty, only the weight of expectations and a future you never wanted.

Your gaze shifts to the sea, the waves crashing against the cliffs below. The pull to leave is stronger now. You imagine the wind whipping through your hair as Tesaerix soars above the clouds, the world falling away beneath you as you fly far, far from here. Essos, the Free Cities, perhaps even beyond the Shadow Lands. Anywhere that is not here, anywhere that is far from the suffocating grip of your brother and the life he has forced upon you.

You stand, the cool night air brushing against your skin as you move toward the window. Tesaerix waits, her powerful wings and fiery breath ready to carry you to freedom. All it would take is a single command, a whispered word, and you could be gone. You could leave this place behind, leave Aegon and Visenya and Rhaenys and the weight of their expectations, and start a new life far from the shadow of the Iron Throne.

But then Torrhen’s face flashes in your mind again, and you falter. The North is lost to you, but would running away truly be any better? Would it bring you the peace you crave, or would it only leave you even more adrift, without even the faint hope of reclaiming what was taken from you?

Your hand rests on the stone window ledge, cold and hard beneath your palm. The choice stands before you, vast and open like the sea. Stay and endure, or fly away and risk everything for the chance at a new beginning.

For now, you remain. The wind howls, but the decision is not yet made.

For two weeks, Aegon comes to your chambers each night, his steps soft but purposeful as he approaches the door. You always hear him before he arrives, the distant echo of boots on stone corridors signaling yet another attempt. Every time, he brings something—a token of affection, as if material offerings could mend the chasm between you.

At first, it is fine silk from distant lands, robes embroidered with dragons and flames, the kind of luxury that would make others swoon. Then, he brings rare books, scrolls of knowledge written in the ancient Valyrian tongue, words meant to remind you of your shared heritage. One night, he brings a necklace of rubies, its deep red glistening like dragonfire in the low light. The next, a golden ring with the Targaryen sigil engraved on it, a symbol of the dynasty you are bound to by blood and duty.

Each gift you receive with a polite, distant nod, setting them aside, your heart unmoved. The weight of his gaze is always upon you, a mixture of hope and frustration lingering in his violet eyes. His words are softer now than they were in the beginning, his anger quelled, replaced by a quiet desperation. He is trying to win you, but the harder he tries, the more distant you feel.

The final gift he brings is a crown—delicate, finely crafted, with jewels of crimson and gold embedded in the pale metal. It is beautiful, a queen's crown, meant to match his. When he places it on your lap, he watches you with an intensity that makes the air thick between you, waiting for something—for approval, for gratitude, for love.

But you only stare at it, unmoving.

"This is yours," he says, his voice almost pleading now. "You are a queen in your own right, Y/N. Not just my sister, but my equal. You deserve this."

Your fingers brush the cold metal of the crown, but it feels like chains, not a symbol of power. You lift your gaze to meet his, your voice steady but firm. "I never wanted a crown, Aegon."

The hurt flickers in his eyes, but you have nothing left to give him. He leaves, the crown sitting abandoned on the edge of your bed, gleaming in the dim light as if mocking you.

One day, his words change.

Aegon enters your chambers, but there is a new tension in the way he moves, a sense of finality in the air. He doesn't bring a gift this time, only the weight of a decision made. You watch him, already knowing something is different.

“We leave for King’s Landing soon," he says, his voice more formal than it has been in weeks. "Aegonfort is ready for us. It will be our new home, where we will build the future of our house."

You feel the words like a cold wind sweeping over you. Aegonfort, the seat of his conquest, the beginning of the new kingdom he is carving out. The idea of leaving Dragonstone—leaving the sea, the cliffs, the only place you’ve ever truly known—sends a chill down your spine. Aegon might see King’s Landing as his victory, but for you, it feels like another cage.

"I don’t want to go," you say, your voice flat, devoid of emotion.

Aegon pauses, as if he didn’t hear you properly, as if he can’t comprehend that you would refuse. “You have to go,” he says slowly, as though speaking to a child. "You are my wife, my queen. You belong at my side."

You rise from where you’ve been sitting, facing him fully, your heart racing with the surge of rebellion that has been growing inside you for weeks. "I belong here," you say, gesturing to the stone walls, to the island that has been your sanctuary, even in the darkest times. "I do not want to go to King’s Landing, to sit in that castle you built, watching you and Visenya and Rhaenys pretend that everything is perfect."

He steps toward you, his face tightening, a flash of anger returning to his features. "You think you can remain here, alone, while the rest of us build our kingdom? This is not a choice, Y/N. You are my wife."

"I never wanted to be," you snap, the words finally breaking free from your lips, bitter and sharp. "You made me your wife, but you never asked me what I wanted. You took me from the future I could have had, from Torrhen—"

"Stark, again? Torrhen is not your future," Aegon interrupts, his voice hardening now. "I am."

"You stole my future, Aegon," you retort, your voice trembling with the weight of your grief. "You took away the one thing I had, and now you expect me to be grateful for this life you’ve forced upon me? You expect me to follow you to your new castle and wear this crown and play the role of your queen?"

His jaw clenches, and for a moment, he says nothing. The silence stretches between you, tense and suffocating. Then, slowly, he steps back, his eyes dark with something you can’t name—anger, yes, but there’s more. Regret? Hurt?

“You will come,” he says finally, his voice low and rough, almost a whisper. “Whether you wish it or not, Y/N. You will come with us.”

You turn away from him, your back to the man who has taken everything from you. You hear him leave the room, his footsteps heavy and final, but the emptiness he leaves behind feels like the deepest cut of all.

You are alone once more, staring out the window at the distant sea. Tesaerix calls to you from the depths of your soul, her distant roars echoing in your mind. The thought of running away comes back to you, stronger now than ever. But for now, you remain, standing at the precipice of a decision that could change everything.

The sun is high in the sky as you and your siblings take flight, the winds rushing past as your dragons soar over the shimmering sea. Below, the jagged cliffs of Dragonstone grow smaller with every wingbeat. Tesaerix flies gracefully beneath you, her golden and cream scales glinting in the sunlight, the deep crimson undertones flickering like blood in the wind. For a moment, you feel weightless—free. The burden of your marriage, of your crown, seems far away in the skies.

Ahead of you, Aegon leads the way on Balerion, the massive black dragon casting a long shadow over the sea. Rhaenys is beside him, her Meraxes keeping pace, and to your left flies Visenya, Vhagar’s powerful wings slicing through the air. The three of them are focused on King's Landing, their eyes set on the growing kingdom they are about to build. But your heart is elsewhere.

You glance down at the sea, endless and blue, stretching toward Essos. The temptation has been gnawing at you for weeks, the thought of breaking away, of flying far from here. Away from Aegon, from the fate that has been thrust upon you. The wind rushes through your hair as you tighten your grip on Tesaerix’s reins, your mind made up.

With a subtle shift in pressure, you command her to turn, pulling away from the formation. Tesaerix tilts her wings, veering off course, away from King’s Landing, away from your brother. Your heart races, a mix of fear and exhilaration filling your veins as you set your sights on the horizon, where the lands of Essos lie in the distance, beyond the reach of Aegon’s grasp.

Behind you, Aegon’s voice rises above the wind, calling your name, desperate and commanding. “Y/N! Turn back!”

But you don’t. You don’t even glance behind you. The sound of his voice fades as you fly farther, the space between you growing wider with every passing second. Tesaerix roars beneath you, as if sensing your resolve, her powerful wings beating faster as she surges toward freedom.

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, you feel alive. The weight of duty, of marriage, of everything that has kept you chained to this life begins to slip away, carried off by the wind. The open skies of Essos call to you like a promise, and for a brief, fleeting moment, you believe you might make it.

Then you hear the deep, thunderous roar of Vhagar.

Visenya.

You glance over your shoulder, and there she is—Visenya, fierce and relentless, closing the distance between you with terrifying speed. Vhagar, far larger than Tesaerix, cuts through the air with powerful, determined strokes. Visenya’s face is set in cold determination, her eyes locked on you with the same intensity she wears in battle.

“Y/N, stop!” she commands, her voice cold as steel, cutting through the wind like a blade. Vhagar roars again, a sound so deep and menacing it sends a shiver down your spine. But you do not stop. You push Tesaerix harder, willing her to fly faster, to escape the inevitable.

But Visenya is not one to be outrun.

Vhagar catches up, pulling alongside you with terrifying ease, her massive bulk dwarfing Tesaerix. Visenya leans forward in her saddle, her voice filled with authority. “Turn back, Y/N! Now!”

Your jaw clenches, your heart pounding in your chest. You meet her gaze for a moment, the defiance in your eyes clear. But Visenya does not waver. Her eyes are cold, unforgiving, and in that moment, you know she will force you back if she has to. She will not let you leave.

The wind whips around you as you pull Tesaerix to slow her flight, the moment of freedom slipping away from you as Vhagar looms beside you, a reminder of the chains that bind you. Visenya’s gaze does not leave yours, and she waits—waits for you to surrender, to accept the inevitable.

With a heavy heart, you tug on the reins, guiding Tesaerix back toward King’s Landing. The dream of escape fades into the distance as you turn, the pull of duty dragging you back toward the life you never wanted. Visenya does not speak again, but her presence is a silent command that you dare not disobey.

As you fly back toward Aegon and Rhaenys, the open skies of Essos behind you, the taste of freedom lingers on your tongue like ashes.

The moment Tesaerix touches the ground, the reality of your failed escape crashes down upon you like a wave. Her powerful wings fold at her sides, but there is no pride in her stance now—only the stillness of submission, forced upon you both by Visenya and Vhagar’s dominance.

You barely have time to catch your breath when Balerion descends, the great shadow of the Black Dread falling over you. His monstrous bulk blocks Tesaerix’s path back to the skies, his massive wings spread wide like an impenetrable wall. Aegon sits atop him, his expression dark, stormy, and unreadable. Rhaenys and Meraxes circle high above, silent witnesses to your humiliation.

The ground trembles as Balerion lands, his roar a deep, earth-shaking sound that makes the ground beneath your feet vibrate. You can feel Tesaerix shifting beneath you, uneasy but still under your control—for now. But even she can sense the finality of what is about to happen.

Aegon swings down from Balerion’s saddle, his steps heavy as he approaches you. His face, usually so composed, is a mix of anger and something close to disbelief. When he speaks, his voice is low, cold. "You would abandon us. Abandon me."

Your heart pounds in your chest, each beat like a hammer against stone. "Aegon, I—"

"You fled from your duty, Y/N," he interrupts, his voice growing harsher. His violet eyes bore into you, as if he’s searching for some understanding of why you would run. "What were you thinking? Were you going to Essos? Were you going to leave us all behind?"

His words cut deep, the sharpness of his accusation stinging more than you expected. But you lift your chin, defiance still burning in your chest. "You took everything from me, Aegon. You took my future, my choice, my life. I wanted to escape—to find something that was mine."

For a moment, his expression softens, as though he might understand. But then, his gaze hardens again. He turns to the soldiers who have gathered nearby, his voice carrying a command that makes your blood run cold. "Chain her dragon."

You feel the words like a physical blow. "No." Your voice is a whisper at first, and then louder, desperation filling it. "No! Aegon, you can’t—please, don’t do this!"

But he does not waver. The soldiers begin to move toward Tesaerix, and she growls low in her throat, sensing the threat. You scramble down from the saddle, running to stand between the men and your dragon, your heart pounding in your chest. "She’s done nothing wrong! You can’t punish her for what I did!"

Aegon’s face is hard, his jaw set. "She’s your dragon, Y/N. You tried to flee on her back. This is to ensure it doesn’t happen again."

"I’ll stay, I’ll do whatever you ask, just don’t chain her," you beg, your voice cracking with desperation. You look into his eyes, hoping—praying—that somewhere inside him, the brother you once knew still exists. "Please, Aegon. Don’t take her freedom. She’s not like Balerion or Vhagar—she’s mine. Please."

But your pleas fall on deaf ears. His gaze flickers, but his resolve does not falter. "This is for your own good. You will not leave us again."

You watch in horror as the chains are brought forth, heavy iron links meant to bind Tesaerix’s limbs and wings. She lets out a deep, angry roar, thrashing against the soldiers who dare approach her, but they move swiftly, well-practiced in subduing dragons. The weight of the chains soon drags her wings down, grounding her in a way that feels like a betrayal to everything she is—a creature of the skies, bound to the earth like a prisoner.

You fall to your knees, tears streaming down your face as you reach out to touch her, your hand trembling as it presses against her warm scales. "I’m sorry," you whisper, your voice shaking. "I’m so sorry."

Tesaerix rumbles softly, her eyes meeting yours, but there is a sadness in her gaze, a reflection of the helplessness you both feel.

Aegon watches from a distance, his expression unreadable now, but you can see the faint trace of guilt in his eyes. He turns his back to you, as if unable to bear the sight of your anguish.

Visenya remains mounted on Vhagar, her gaze sharp and unyielding. She offers no comfort, no sympathy. This is what must be done in her eyes, a necessary lesson in control. Rhaenys, still observing from above, does not intervene either. Her silence speaks volumes, but her presence feels distant, like she is struggling with the sight of your suffering.

The chains rattle as they secure the last link, the sound like a death knell in the still air. Tesaerix lowers her head, defeated, and your heart shatters along with her spirit.

You rise slowly to your feet, wiping the tears from your face with trembling hands, your eyes hollow as you look at Aegon one last time. "You’ve broken her," you say, your voice barely more than a whisper. "Just as you’ve broken me."

Aegon does not respond. He does not even turn. And in that moment, you know that the brother you once loved, the brother who might have understood your heart, is gone—replaced by the conqueror who cannot allow defiance, not even from his own blood.

[ponderingmoonlight]

I'd love Obanai + Sanemi saving reader from a demon (like in the first episode??) You are awesome, thanks!

This escalated so quick damn, but hey, there you have a full on fic hehe - hope you enjoy <3

Sanemi saving your ass even if you don't want to

Pairing: Sanemi x fem!reader

Word Count: 1,9k

Synopsis: You knew what you got yourself into when you let a demon capture you instead of your beloved friend. Little did you know that help already arrived, viewing you as nothing but a damsel in distress until suddenly, you turn into much more...

Warnings: (y/n) fell but I fell harder, just saw the movie and it's so AHHH, honestly Sameni's voice is so mezmerizing omg, however this includes violence and language, might incluce spoilers for the movie but if you haven't seen it already you don't know what's going on anyway lol, like all my demon slayer fanfics this includes ai pics of reader so if this doesn't sit right with you, I'd suggest to not read it

PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF YOU NEED MORE SANEMI CONTENT

Your dirty cold feet pound against the muddy floor, haunted eyes darted towards nothing but sheer darkness. You still don’t know how you managed to keep the demon from kidnapping your best friend, how you’re still alive when at this very moment, this frightful creature his hunting you down like its prey.

So many innocent young women, one after another disappeared from your village nearby. Why did you never even think about the possibility that you or even worse, a person you love could be next?

Not until now. Not until you stared into the demon’s stone-cold red orbs when it began to run after you. Not until you were the one threatened to get eaten alive.

“Run! Run and don’t look back!”

“But (y/n), you’ll get killed-“

“I won’t. Leave it to me, tell everyone to lock their doors, just don’t come back!”, you screamed on top of your lungs.

“I’m getting impatient, stupid girl. You know you will get killed, right?”

Blood rushed through your ears, body threatened to fail you.

“If you want to kill me you have to get me first, stupid demon.”

How long have you been running for? Minutes, hours? You lost track of time completely with your body screaming, begging you to stop and take a break. The bitter taste of iron covers your whole mouth, blood sticks to your new Yukata like a second skin. Your mother will completely lose it when she sees the crimson discolouring on the white fabric.

“I’m having enough.”

If you ever see her again.

With a swift motion, the demon swings you over his shoulder, his claws digging into your flesh so roughly that you cry out. No, this can’t be the end. You can’t allow yourself to die like this: in the arms of a demon, without even fighting back. No one ever told you what to do, you were always able to stand up for yourself. Today will be no exception. Even if you get killed, you will fight back with everything you have.

“Shinazugawa…Something’s not right.”

Sanemi can’t help but look around, eyes meeting the countless demons around him. What the hell is this place?

“Yeah, I don’t like this, either. I’ve never seen demons swarming around like this.”

“Let me go!”, you yell, fist banging roughly against the creatures’ back while it drags you into what looks like a haunted mansion.

Your eyes widen when you feel multiple pairs of red orbs laying on your body.

“Demon slayers…”, you hear your kidnapper hiss through gritted teeth, turning his head over his shoulder.

Demon slayers? You’ve heard of them before, how they behead every demon coming their way, how desperately they fight for humanity. But…where were these demon slayers when all the girls from your village got kidnapped? Where are they when you need them the most? How absoluteley useless.

You don’t know what has gotten into you. Is it the anger, the grief? With a rapid motion, you dig your nails into the eyes of the demon until he lets you fall to the ground abruptly, groaning out in visible pain.

Everything hurts, a trail of blood follows you as you drag your body against a rotten wall. You feel your body giving in, all the stress, agony and exhaustion rushing over you like a wave. But no, you can’t give up right now. Not when there’s still a slight chance for you to survive.

“You little bitch. Eat her, I will leave and get her little friend.”

Suddenly, the urge to puke becomes almost unbearable. Countless demons come near you, their teeth exposed to the harsh moonlight. No, this is not how you want to end. You can’t die getting eaten alive by these creatures. But what else are you supposed to do? There is no way out of this living hell.

Except for the destroyed window a few steps away. This is your only chance. You drag yourself up, sprint over the rotten wood underneath your naked feet and jump.

Floors into the depths.

Away from the demons, into another certain death.

“Where is the girl?”, Sanemi questions harshly, sword oh so ready to behead that bastard of a demon in front of him while heading down.

Screw this strange place and the countless demons around him, he needs to find you, needs to carry you into safety.

“The girl? She jumped out of a window in order to safe herself. She’s probably dead by now.”

He lets out the breath he didn’t knew he was holding, blank eyes staring at the stone ground his blade has crashed instead of the demon. What was this place?

No, he can’t think about this right now. As fast as his body carries him, he gets out of that cursed mansion, eyes instantly finding your falling body.

Only metres away from crushing into the ground.

Oh, how much you wished it wouldn’t end like this. But maybe this was everything you could do, dying like this is still better than getting eaten up by a demon. Where are those demon slayers? You close your tired lids, enjoy the weightlessness for a brief second. It doesn’t matter now. Hopefully, the demon is long dead before you. At least you're dragging his ass with you…

“Hey, you aren’t dead, are ya?”

That voice…A male voice, without any doubt. So harsh and tempting at the same time that you can’t help but open your eyes in confusion.

Only to be met by purple ones. Male ones, to be exact. Are those...his arms wrapped around your trembling body?

“Let me go!”, you shriek.

It seems like all power that left your body appeared again while you miserably try to fight yourself out of his arms. Who is this man? Another demon, maybe?

“I won’t let you eat me!”

“Eating you? Are you dumb, woman? I’m a demon slayer”, the man in front of you barks, his hands roughly holding onto your arms in order to stop you from hitting him again.

“A demon slayer?” you repeat.

“Yeah, the wind hashira to be exact.”

Your gaze falls from his face to his exposed chest, his toned abs. He breathes heave while still holding onto your arms. Suddenly you feel so…hot.

“You are a demon slayer.”

With a swift motion, you free one of your hands and slap him so hard that he sees stars.

“It sure took you some time to get here! What about all the other women who died here, the countless young girls that were killed by demons you did nothing about? Why did you save me!?”

“I’m wondering that too”, Sanemi mutters under his breath.

Did you actually go inane? The way you look at him with your eyes completely furious, face and yukata smeared in your own blood. You can’t be serious about that, right?

“You should be thankful”, he finally hisses.

“Thankful!? YOU should be sorry!”

“Yeah, I’m sorry for saving you…you…you ungrateful thing!”

“I could have saved myself”, you argue.

“Oh, is that so?”

No, absolutely not. You would have died if it wasn’t for the wind hashira.

“Everything was under control”, you snap at him.

Nothing was under control. This was your last way out of your misery.

“Is it so hard to just be thankful?”, he argues.

“Who’s your new friend, Shinazugawa?”

“We aren’t friends”, both of you reply at once.

Your heavy breath hangs in the air, hands still clenched into fists. Deep down you know how wrong it is to snap at him, that the demon slayer corps aren’t responsible for the countless lives the demons took in this area. But still…Why does it have to be you they saved? Why not the girl next door who would have married the next day or the girl that was supposed to leave only days after she got killed? It’s not fair, it’s not enough, it’s-

You take a heavy step back when your vision starts to get foggy.

“I won’t catch that brat if she faints now”, the wind hashira grumbles.

“We both know you will.”

The last thing you see are his purple eyes before you fall straight into deep darkness.

-a few days later-

“She’s awake now, Shinazugawa. And she asked for you.”

He hates the way his heart skips a beat by hearing those innocent words from Shinobu. You didn’t leave his head. Despite the state of Oyakata-sama, despite the hashira training, despite the stinging fact that the king of demons himself will come for them, you were always on his mind. You, with your strong but feminine eyes. You, who jumped out of a window into certain death only to keep your body away from the mouths of these demons. You, who straight up slapped him. Was it your attitude that caught him off guard? He never experienced a woman saved by him being this ungrateful. Aren’t you aware of the fact that you would have died that night if it wasn’t for him?

“What do you want, brat?”

His words come out harsher than anticipated while your sight simply takes his breath away. Since he can remember, Sanemi was never interested in any women romantically. No, love is nothing but weakness, women mean nothing but trouble. But even though you glare at him with venomous eyes the second he enters the room, he can’t help but feel drawn towards you.  

“You’re a hashira, right?”

Your words sound just as harsh as his, your gaze meeting his with so much strength that it is him who starts to feel uncomfortable.

“Yeah, I already told you that-“

“Train me”, you interrupt him.

“I want to become a demon slayer and kick your ass.”

“You, kicking my ass?”

You grab the fabric of his uniform so roughly that he isn’t able to react, suddenly so close to you that he can feel the heat radiating from your body.

“Train me.”

“Fine brat. I’ll train you. But don’t think I’ll go easy on your ass.”

-bonus-

“Try to keep up, (y/n).”

His katana clashes into yours over and over, makes it hard to stand your ground. But still you fight back, your hands holding onto your sword so tightly that your knuckles stand out white. You just have to win. There is absolutely no way you’ll lose against your master again.

Especially since he’s your lover.

“Are you tired yet?”, he teases you with a smirk.

“Absolutely not”, you press out while dodging another hit just in time.

This won’t help. If you continue to fight like this, he’ll sweep you off your feet like all these countless times before. But what are you supposed to do? It almost seems as if Sanemi has no weakness.

Except you.

“But you’ll be when I’m done”, you purr.

That sudden change of mood catches him completely off guard, forces him to hesitate for the split of a second.

Enough for you to sweep him off his feet, your body resting on top of his while your blade hangs into his face.

“I won”, you announce triumphally.

“You cheated”, he protests underneath you.

“Demons play dirty as well. You need to be prepared for everything-“

All it takes his one swift motion for him to position himself on top of you, body forcing you onto the ground before you’re able to catch a breath.

“Imma show you how dirty playing really works, then.”

Tags: @chilichopsticks @hellkaiserinphoenix  @ynackerman9499 @keepghostly @beatrexworld @froufrousnowman @hidazinie @tomiokathedepresso  @poketrainer2270 @chaoticwinnercupcake @lees-chaotic-brain @wordskeeper @polarbvnny @kayleegomez @ryva @baku2345 @komelrebi-san

[jam3sacaster]

“Ya’ want me to touch ya’ like that?”

(Rivals) Declan O’Hara x Reader

Suggestion by my dearest Miranon🩷 / A budding author, you are introduced to Declan O’Hara by your friend Lizzie, and realise your new book has a profound effect…

18+ FANFIC / SUPER SMUT! Finally some more Declan! Super long, I’m so sorry. Reader character aged at 21. As always, request what you wanna see in my asks 💋

“Bloody hell.” Lizzie Vereker remarks, flipping through pages of your first ever publication. “This is… this is porn!” She speaks through a flustered grin. “Oh God, Lizzie. Don’t say that.” You roll your eyes and tut, anxiously chomping at your fingernails as you intently read her expression. It had been 2 weeks since you had published your first book — something of an erotica. You had recently been taken on by Angler Publishing, Lizzie’s agent. Something to be overjoyed about, but you couldn’t help but be frightened about the public reaction you were to receive.

“Well, I can tell you, it has been quite the hit in Rutshire. I’ve handed out a copy to quite literally everybody I’ve met.” Your foxy-haired companion informed you. A wry smile painted your face, half-petrified by the thought of an entire village dispassionately flicking through your novel. “Well, let’s hope it goes down well.” You sigh.

-

Declan O’Hara, recently unemployed and hopelessly bored, was sat in his arm chair. Lighting a cigarette and huffing out the biggest exhale manageable, he picked up the novel that Lizzie has passed to him in the village shop earlier that week. “What a load of shite.” He quipped to himself as he scanned over the title. Starting the book from halfway through, he happened to land upon one of your more risqué chapters — detailing the most erotic and fantastical scenes. Reaching down to adjust his growing bulge, Declan groaned and spoke into the air, “Fuck me, she’s a dirty girl. Mind of filth.”

It had been a while since he’d been intimate — Maud had took off a few months ago now, with no contact or intention of returning. He was a red-blooded mammal with a carnal instinct, he needed to get his release sooner or later, and it wasn’t going to be over a fucking book. He arose from his chair, closing the book and camouflaging it within his bookshelf. A short snap of the letterbox irritated his ears as he began to stride towards the front door. “The fuck is this?” He asked to himself, bending down to retrieve the small, glossy leaflet that had been pushed through his door. The leaflet advertised your book signing, with a guest appearance from established author Lizzie Vereker herself. “Fuck that.” He rolled his eyes, balling up the leaflet between his palms and tossing it into the paper bin.

-

“Will anyone actually come?” You ask as you watch Lizzie, frantically laying out pens and copies of your book on a fold-up table, carefully prepared outside of the village hall. “Of course!” She lies, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her arm. Lizzie desperately wanted you to succeed and had personally posted a leaflet through every house door in Rutshire. Whether anyone actually turned up, however, was a different story entirely.

Declan, an ever pessimistic look engrained on his face, began to trudge past the stoned driveway of the village hall, furiously puffing on a cigarette and muttering to himself. “Declan! Declan!” Lizzie began to call, and you immediately rested your head in your hands — today was going to be mortifying. The moustached man appeared to ignore her, but Lizzie would not give up. “Come on Declan, come on Declan.” She shouted, waving him over with every word. The man muttered to himself once more, turned on his heels, and began to walk towards your crudely prepared desk. “Hello, Miss Vereker. How can I help ‘ya today?” He asked, feigning friendliness. You took a quick glance at the man and immediately regretted it. Darkened chocolate hair, rather tedious tweed outfit… but an incredibly intoxicating face. “This is my friend,” Lizzie begins to introduce you, but you chime in with your name and give Declan a small wave, to which he shoots you a small smile.

“I gave you her novel the other day. Did you get a chance to read it?” She asked, speaking in a hushed tone in order to avoid embarrassment.. she knew the answer would most definitely be a no. “I did, actually. I flicked through it last night.” Declan replied, raking a hand over his curled hair. Lizzie looked at you with wildly optimistic eyes, to which you nervously grinned. “Wh-what did you think?” You peeped, clearing your throat immediately after. “You’re quite the little minx, aren’t ya’?” He smirked down at you, avoiding Lizzie’s unsettlingly persistent eye contact. Blushing wildly, you giggle and pick up a novel from the top of your almost-toppling pile. “Care for a signed copy?” You ask, a sanguine smile controlling your mouth. Declan scratched at his beard hesitantly and exhaled thunderously. “Go on then.” Clapping her hands in excitement, Lizzie pushed out a small ‘yay’, and equipped you with a pen. Scribbling your signature into the book, you pushed the copy towards him, keeping one hand on the cover. He repossessed it from you, brushing softly across your hand and smirking at you.

Figuring he may as well take his chance, Declan cleared his throat and pursed his lips in speech. “If ya’ free tonight, why don’t ‘ya come for a drink with me and go into more detail about ya’ filthy book?” A rare smile interrupted his question. “Oh… okay. Where’s good for a drink?” You question, flipping your hair to one side. “Ah, nowhere around here. Lizzie’ll tell ya’ which my house is. If you’re comfortable, I’m free tonight.” He murmurs, turning around and walking away from the table.

“Fuck. Me. Lizzie. He is gorgeous.” You groan, rubbing your hands over your eyes. You couldn’t have been more embarrassed at how you handled the situation. “Oh God, Declan? No, no. Dirty.” Lizzie grimaced, turning her nose up at Mr O’Hara.

-

Some few hours after what seemed to be a semi-successful public appearance, you lay on your bed in solitude. Declan hadn’t left your mind the entire day. After some careful consideration, you decided to at least visit him for a very quick, very small drink. Curling your intricately long eyelashes and swiping gloss over your lips, you scanned yourself in your dressing table mirror — chestnut hair curled delicately and a tight floral dress hugging your curves, accessorised with a delicate pearl necklace and earrings. Taking a quick glimpse at the scrawled address that Lizzie had written for you, you begin to make the bitterly cold journey to The Priory.

Gently knocking on the front door of the luxurious country home, you waited nervously and replayed your earlier conversation in your head — unpicking on every stutter and incorrect word. “Oh. I didn’t think you were gonna come.” Declan spoke as he opened the door. Not quite the grand entrance you were expecting. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I just thought-“ You begin to panic, instantaneously blushing and backing away from the door. After a few painfully uncomfortable seconds, Declan allowed himself a stifled chuckle as he extended the door to let you in. “Ahh, I’m just jokin’. Come in. Lounge is the first door on the right.”

Taking a demure seat on his sofa, you kept your hands bunched up in your lap, afraid of taking up too much space. “What do ya’ drink? Whiskey? Vodka?” He bellowed from the kitchen, voice overcome only by the sound of glasses chinking against each other. “A vodka and lemonade will do, thank you.” You smile, watching intently as Declan entered the living room, pouring out two drinks with a trembling hand. “Did you really like the book?” You ask, pulling your cigarette case from your petite, leather clutch bag and lighting it. Declan followed suit, and subsequently swiped the signed copy of your novel from his coffee table, opening it a quarter way through and reading a sentence aloud.

•

“Alice howled in intense sexual gratification as Edward swirled his fingertips across her swollen clitoris,” Declan began, voice assertive and proud, “Jesus Christ, how are ya’ even allowed to publish this?” He asked, barking out a laugh. Rubbing your lips together in self-consciousness. Declan took note of your diffidence and halted his laughter, coughing brashly from the fumes of his cigarette and reading the next sentence of your book inwardly. “Sorry. I, uh… didn’t mean ta’ embarrass ‘ya.” He sighs, as you knock back the entirety of your vodka. “Can I have another, please?” You ask, and Declan obliges, filling more than half the glass with vodka, and replicating the insane measurement in his own.

“It’s erotica, Declan. It’s very popular. Really, it reflects all of one’s needs and desires.” You tut, tucking a strand of chocolate hair behind your left ear. Halfway through a mouthful of vodka, Declan paused and glared at you. It was the first time he had noticed you — really noticed you. The hopeful glint in your lazuline eyes, the gentle undulations of your shapely figure, the sultry pursing of your reddened lips. Your cheeks glowed the most charming shade of rose as the vodka coursed through your veins. “So, what are your needs and desires?” He whispered, voice gravelly and coarse. “Read the next line.” You hush, taking another large swig of your drink. “Her wetness coated his fingers and his erection grew at the smell of her.” He reads, shifting himself in his seat uncomfortably. “It’s how every woman wants to be touched.” You whisper, inching closing to him and resting your head on your hand.

“Ya’ want me to touch ya’ like that?” Declan growled, pulling your knees apart gently and creeping his hand up your thigh. The heat emanating from your pussy made him grunt in pleasure. Shuffling slightly to allow your dress to ride up to the top of your thighs, Declan pulled at your knee once more until your legs were widely spread. He brought his finger to your clit and gasped, “No pants? Fuckin’ dirty girl.” You softly bite your bottom lip at his words. Nimbly swirling circles around your pink clit, you felt yourself dripping in excitement. You panted desperately at your heightened sensitivity. “Does that feel good?” He asked, delving two fingers inside you and moaning at your constriction around him. You squeaked out the smallest yes possible, pleasure making it impossible to formulate coherent sentences.

Removing his fingers from you and standing up, Declan unbuttoned his shirt to reveal his wildly hairy chest. Gazing at him with adoring eyes, you watched as he unzipped his trousers and pulled his boxers from his ankles. Sitting back down on the sofa and motioning for you to copy, you pulled your floral dress over your head and off — substantially large breasts bouncing through the rhythm. Grabbing your hand and pulling you onto his lap, Declan fervidly crashed your lips together in lust — tongue fighting it’s way into yours and hand reaching up to grab a tight handful of your left breast. Desperate for friction, you began to grind your clit against his firm cock, moans escaping through the gaps of your kiss.

Grabbing your petite waist, Declan hoisted you up slightly and lowered you back down onto his cock. A powerful groan left your lips, your pussy slowly stretching open over his girth. Moving his hands to grab handfuls of your area, flesh spilling between his fingers, he bounced you up and down, his head lulling back in pleasure. “Declan, you’re so fucking big.” You exclaim, steadying yourself on his shoulders. “Am I breaking ya’, my girl?” He grunted into your ear, setting the pace of a madman. The way he could so easily raise you up and down created the most powerful knots in your stomach. “Yes, and it feels so fucking good.” You moan.

Feeling you clench tighter around him, Declan moaned under his breath and released his hand, allowing you to set your own pace. Uncontrollable with ardour, you bounce on his cock with a frantic pace, evermore spurred on by his lustful reaction. “Keep goin’, my girl. I’m gonna fuckin’ cum inside ya’.” The Irishman grunted, keeping his hands by his side and allowing you to ride him to release. “Fuck, Declan. Cum for me. I want it so fucking bad.”

Lowering his head to take a nipple into his mouth, Declan moved his right hand to wrap around your waist, thrusting into you sloppily as he neared his ecstasy. “Are ya’ fuckin’ ready for it?” He asked, cock already twitching in anticipation. You nod lazily, losing control of your function. Grunting carnally as he shot his hot ropes of cum inside you, his grip around your waist tightened and you both panted together, relieved and exhausted. Slowly, lifting yourself from him, Declan watched as his seed dripped from your entrance — a successful symbol of your lovemaking.

“You look so fuckin’ good with my cum inside ‘ya.” He smirked, playing a firm smack on your arse. This would most definitely not be the last time you saw each other…

[elikajinnie]

Hiii I love your fanfics!!😭🩷

Can u write something on sunoo like horror au or thriller au?

Fallen Angel - K.S

THANK YOUUUU!!<333 Omg i have so many horror au drafts right now. It`s really giving me motivation.

P: Devil!Sunoo X Fem!Reader

Warnings: Blood/Injury, Rituals & Cult-like Activity, Obsessive Love, Body Worship, Murder, Corruption, Falling In Love, Stalking?

Synopsis: A seemingly innocent walk through the forest turns into a chilling nightmare, and your soul becomes the ultimate prize for the devil himself. With a captivating presence and an insatiable desire for you, he reveals that your fate is now intertwined with his. And he will keep you by his side.

a/n: I am a sucker for paranormal movies :p the start is inspired by Jennifer`s body :) HAPPY HELL WEEK!! (iykyk)

"The Devil is real and he's not some little red man with horns and a tail. He can be beautiful because he's a fallen angel and he used to be God's favourite."

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You come downstairs after slipping into more comfortable clothes, ready for a walk. The house is quiet, your steps light on the wooden floor as you head toward the door. Living on the outskirts of town has its perks, and your favorite one is the forest. It's a place of solace, a space where you can let your thoughts wander freely as you walk beneath the trees.

You pull on your shoes, grab your jacket from the hook by the door, and fish your phone out of your pocket. A playlist hums to life in your ears, setting the mood. With your keys in hand, you lock the door behind you, the soft click signaling the start of your escape into the wild.

The gravel crunches beneath your feet, the small stones and twigs snapping with every step. There’s something rhythmic in the way the sound mixes with the music, creating its own sort of tune. You follow the familiar path, the forest looming ahead, inviting you in. As the trees grow taller around you, the ground changes, becoming softer, more forgiving underfoot. The scent of pine and earth fills the air, fresh and damp. Sunlight filters through in thin beams, casting long, golden shadows on the forest floor.

Your breathing syncs with the rhythm of your steps, steady and calm. The music playing in your ears becomes a backdrop to the symphony of nature—birds chirping somewhere above, the distant rustle of small animals moving through the underbrush. You can feel the world quieting around you, like the forest itself is protecting you from the noise and chaos of everyday life.

The deeper you go, the more peaceful it becomes. The path you walk is familiar, worn by countless footsteps over the years, but every time it feels new, like the forest shifts and breathes with the seasons. You pause for a moment, standing still, letting the quiet wash over you. There’s a comfort in this silence, a stillness that fills you.

But as you take a breath, something in the air changes. It’s subtle at first—like the shift in a breeze before a storm. The trees, once inviting, now seem to lean in closer. The shadows deepen, stretching out in unfamiliar shapes. The music in your ears feels distant now, as if it’s being drowned out by the weight of the silence.

Your steps slow, and the crackle of a twig behind you makes you stop altogether. You turn, scanning the trees, expecting to see nothing but the familiar outline of trunks and branches. But for a moment, just a brief flicker, you think you see movement—something or someone slipping between the trees, too fast to catch.

The forest, once a place of peace, now feels different.

Your heart quickens, instinctively telling you something is wrong. The peaceful stillness of the forest now feels like a trap. Slowly, you turn around, careful not to make any sudden movements, your instincts screaming at you to leave. The music in your ears lowers into the background, drowned out by the rushing pulse of your own heartbeat. You try to stay calm, taking slow steps back in the direction of home, eyes scanning the forest around you.

But the feeling doesn’t go away. Every shadow seems to shift, every tree leaning just a little too close. The forest, once familiar, now feels foreign, hostile even. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, and your steps quicken. You need to get out of here.

Just as you pick up the pace, something moves at the corner of your vision. You freeze. Slowly, you glance around, and that’s when you see them—figures, barely visible at first, blending into the dark shadows of the trees. Cloaked in black, their faces hidden, they move with eerie silence. One, then two, then more of them, appearing from the forest as if they’ve always been there, watching.

Panic surges through you. You turn fully now, ready to run, but it’s too late. The forest around you is no longer empty. They’ve surrounded you, their dark forms closing in like a tightening net. Your breath catches in your throat as you search for a way out, but there’s none.

Before you can even react, something hard strikes the side of your head. Pain explodes in your skull, and the world around you spins wildly. The ground seems to rush up to meet you as your vision blurs, darkening around the edges. The last thing you feel is the cold, unforgiving earth beneath you as consciousness slips away, pulling you into a deep, heavy darkness.

When you finally come to, your head throbs with pain. Your eyelids flutter open, and the first thing you notice is that you’re propped up against a large, moss-covered stone, the dampness of it seeping through your clothes.

Panic sets in as you realize you’re bound—your wrists and ankles tied tightly with coarse rope, the roughness biting into your skin. There’s a gag in your mouth, muffling your shallow breaths. Your heart races as you struggle to move, but the ropes hold firm.

Looking around, your eyes adjust to the flickering light of candles surrounding you, casting eerie shadows on the trees. There are seven figures, cloaked in black, standing silently around you. They are still, their faces hidden under the hoods.

You hear it then—the low, rhythmic sound of chanting. The voice is monotone, steady, like it’s reciting something ancient and powerful. You don’t understand the words, but you guess it’s Latin. You begin to struggle, trying to loosen the ropes, heart pounding as your fingers strain against the bindings. But the more you move, the tighter they seem to become. Panic rises in your chest.

Suddenly, one of the figures steps forward, and in their hand, you see a dagger glint in the candlelight. Your stomach twists in fear. You freeze, eyes wide, unable to tear your gaze away as they approach you. The chanting continues, unwavering.

Without warning, the figure kneels beside you. The dagger’s cold blade presses against your cheek, and then—pain. You flinch as the sharp steel slices into your skin, a thin line of blood trickling down your face. A muffled whimper escapes your throat. The figure collects the blood, careful and deliberate, smearing it onto an ancient, crumbling scroll that looks like it’s been carried through time itself.

Terror takes over as you watch, helpless, as the figure lights the scroll with a simple flick of a lighter. The flames catch quickly, consuming the scroll in moments. As the last of it turns to ash, the chanting stops.

A deafening silence follows.

No birds. No wind. The entire forest seems to be holding its breath, as if the world itself is waiting for something terrible to happen.

Then, all at once, the candles surrounding you flicker out, plunging you into darkness. But just as quickly, they flare back to life—only this time, the flames are blood red, casting an ominous, fiery glow over the ritual circle. The figures stand unmoving, their faces still hidden, but you can feel the shift in the air. Something has changed.

Something is coming.

The air around you feels thick, oppressive, as if the very forest is suffocating under some unseen weight. Then, suddenly, a voice cuts through the silence. It’s sultry yet booming, rich with mockery and power. It doesn’t come from any one direction—it comes from everywhere at once, as though the trees themselves are speaking.

“Well, well, well,” the voice purrs, dripping with amusement. “How desperate you all must be, fumbling with your little rituals and chants. Meddling with powers far beyond your reach.” It chuckles darkly, the sound reverberating through the forest, making the ground beneath you tremble. “Did you really think you could summon me so easily? That I would come at the beck and call of your pathetic incantations?”

The cloaked figures stiffen at the voice’s words, shifting nervously in their places. They remain silent, but you can feel their fear in the way they hesitate, as if they didn’t anticipate this response. The voice continues, teasing and condescending. “You should’ve known better. But here you are, scrambling in the darkness, begging for something you cannot possibly understand.”

Just then, one of the figures dares to speak. Their voice is trembling, but steady enough to say, “But we brought you a sacrifice.”

The forest falls deathly still. The voice, which had been mocking moments before, quiets suddenly. The shift in its tone is palpable, as though whoever or whatever it is has just taken a keen interest in something—or rather, in someone. You feel a chill creep up your spine.

There’s a long pause, and then the voice speaks again, but this time it’s softer, quieter, as though it's enthralled. “A sacrifice…?” The amusement fades, replaced by something else—curiosity. Desire. “And what a beautiful offering you’ve brought me…”

Your blood runs cold as the voice seems to focus entirely on you now, its words lingering in the air. You can feel its attention like a weight pressing down on you, though there is no form, no figure to see—just the voice, enveloping you in the darkness.

“I must say, you’ve outdone yourselves,” it murmurs, almost appreciatively. “Such beauty… such fragility. A rare find indeed.”

Your heart pounds in your chest, and you can’t tell if this attention is a blessing or a curse. Every muscle in your body screams to run, but the ropes still hold you tight, and the darkness closes in.

The figures, emboldened by the voice’s attention, begin to speak. One by one, they make their demands, their voices eager and trembling with greed.

“We ask for money,” one says, stepping forward.

“Power,” another adds, almost hungrily.

“We offer our loyalty in return for wealth, for control. We will serve you without question,” one of them declares, their voice dripping with desperation.

For a moment, there is silence. Then, the voice returns, and this time it’s filled with cold, biting laughter. “Money? Power?” it repeats, the words laced with disdain. “How pitiful. Is that what you’ve gathered here for? How small your desires are. You dare summon me, meddle in forces far beyond your comprehension, and for what? Gold? Influence?”

The voice’s laughter grows, mocking them all, cutting through the air like a knife. “You offer loyalty as if it means something to me, as if you’re anything more than fleeting, mortal specks. You want power? You want riches? You have no idea what true power is, nor the price it demands.”

The figures hesitate, doubt creeping into their postures as the voice continues to belittle their wishes. And then, just as your heart beats faster with terror, you feel a breath against your ear—soft, like a gentle wind. A whisper, barely audible, brushes against your skin.

“Close your eyes.”

You freeze. Slowly, you turn your head, expecting to see someone beside you, but there’s no one. Just the oppressive darkness and the flickering red flames of the candles. Your pulse quickens, but something deep inside you urges you to trust the voice. Against the rising panic in your chest, you clench your eyes shut tightly, your body trembling as the atmosphere around you shifts.

Suddenly, the stillness of the forest is shattered by the sound of screams. Blood-curdling, desperate cries fill the air, piercing through the night as the figures around you shout and wail in terror. You hear the snap of branches, the thud of bodies hitting the ground, and the crackling of something far more sinister. But you don’t dare open your eyes. You’re frozen in place, paralyzed with fear, every muscle locked in place as chaos erupts around you.

The screams continue, a cacophony of horror, but you keep your eyes shut, holding onto the whisper’s command. Your breath is ragged, your chest heaving as you try to control the overwhelming panic that’s rising inside you. Time stretches, seconds feeling like hours.

And then, just as suddenly as it began, the forest goes quiet. The screams fade into nothing, leaving only an eerie silence. Your heart races in the deafening stillness, and though you can no longer hear the carnage, you can feel its lingering presence.

You breathe in and out, fast and shallow, terrified to open your eyes, terrified of what you might see. The forest is so quiet now, as if it’s holding its breath once more. You start to wonder if it’s truly over, if the nightmare has passed.

Then, the whisper returns, soft and chilling, right by your ear. “Sleep…”

Before you can even react, your mind becomes heavy, your body limp. It feels like a spell, something irresistible pulling you into darkness. Your eyes, still shut, flutter briefly before you fall into an all-consuming sleep, leaving the horrors of the forest behind.

You drift through the most peaceful sleep you’ve ever had, your body weightless, like it’s floating down a calm, serene river. The usual tension in your muscles is gone, replaced by a deep, soothing calm. It’s as if you’re cradled by warmth, gently rocked by invisible hands. There’s no sense of time, only pure restfulness, the kind that reaches into your soul and makes you feel whole.

In the distance, you hear a voice—soft, affectionate, and full of admiration. It whispers sweetly, its tone rich and tender, complimenting everything about you. It praises the softness of your hair, the elegance of your face, the beauty of your body, and even your very presence, as though every part of you is perfect. The words wash over you like a lullaby, pulling you deeper into that blissful rest.

When you finally wake up, you’re in your bed. The familiar comfort of your own room surrounds you, but something doesn’t feel right. You blink groggily, sitting up, trying to shake off the lingering haze of sleep. Confused, you glance around, and your heart races as you remember the events —the forest, the figures, the voice. Instinctively, your hand goes to your cheek, expecting to feel the sting of the cut, but there’s nothing. Your skin is smooth, untouched. There’s no sign of what happened.

You throw off the covers and hurry to the mirror, your pulse quickening. You search your reflection, half-expecting to see some trace of the terror from the forest, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary. Your hair is the same, your face unmarked. It’s like nothing happened at all, and yet… you know it wasn’t a dream. It couldn’t have been. The memory is too vivid, too real. The voice, the blood, the chanting—all of it remains sharp in your mind.

You turn away from the mirror, trying to make sense of it, when something catches your eye. Your breath hitches in your throat. On your bedside table, there’s a candle—lit and burning softly. Next to it, a single rose, its petals dark and velvety, resting elegantly beside the flame.

You freeze, your heart pounding as you approach it. Slowly, you pick up the rose, your fingers brushing against its delicate petals. The candle flickers slightly, casting a warm glow across the room. You stare at it, the confusion settling deep in your chest.

“Oh…” you whisper, your voice barely audible in the stillness of the room. The soft voice from your dream, the one that praised you, seems to echo in your ear again, gentle and intimate. Startled, you whip around, expecting to see someone behind you, but there’s no one. Just the empty room.

“Weird…” you mutter under your breath, glancing around once more. Still, there’s no explanation, no figure emerging from the shadows. You place the rose back down on the table and blow out the candle, watching the smoke spiral up into the air before it disappears. The room feels normal again, but the unease remains.

You climb back into bed, pulling the covers up to your chin. Despite everything, the warmth of sleep begins to pull at you again, as if beckoning you back into its embrace. And though the forest may be far behind, you can’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—is still watching.

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In the days that follow, you can’t shake the unsettling feeling of being watched. It’s always there, just out of sight—a presence hovering behind you, lingering at the edge of your senses. Every time you glance over your shoulder, expecting to see someone or something, there’s nothing. Just empty air. But the feeling never fades. It clings to you like a shadow, haunting your every move.

You become more cautious, always looking around, watching for signs of movement, but there’s no panic, no alarm. It’s almost as if your body has accepted the presence, even as your mind refuses to make sense of it. You should feel fear, but instead, there’s a strange calm, an eerie quiet that lingers no matter how close the feeling gets.

The day after the incident, you return to the forest, hoping for some kind of clue, some proof that it wasn’t a dream. But the forest is peaceful, untouched. There’s no sign of the ritual, no remnants of the candles, no trace of the figures. It’s as though the whole thing never happened, swallowed up by the woods themselves. The silence feels wrong, and as you walk the same path, the memory of that night burns vividly in your mind, but there’s nothing here to confirm it.

You try to move on, but even your friends start noticing the change in you. Rei, Jeongin, and Yujin glance at you with worried eyes, asking if everything’s okay. You brush them off, telling them it’s just stress, maybe some restless nights. But deep down, you know it’s more than that. There’s no rest anymore, only the constant feeling that you’re being watched, even when no one is around.

And then there’s the candle and rose. Every night, without fail, when you go to bed, they’re there. The candle always lit, casting a soft glow across your room. The rose—perfect, fresh, never wilting—sits beside it. It weirds you out, gnawing at your sanity, especially when you know you lock the windows and draw the curtains every night. There’s no way someone could be getting in. After the third night, you even called the police, desperate for answers. But they found nothing—no signs of forced entry, no signs of any entry at all. The officer told you everything seemed normal, but nothing about this felt normal to you.

The hopelessness sinks in. There’s no explanation, no rational way to understand what’s happening. And it doesn’t help that at night, when the world is quiet, you can hear it again—that soft voice. It’s always there, whispering just at the edge of your consciousness. Close, yet distant. Its words are impossible to grasp, like a lullaby just out of reach, tugging at your mind as you drift into sleep, feeling the weight of something you can’t explain pressing down on you.

You want to scream, to fight it, but there’s no fear. Only that strange, unsettling calm, like a storm waiting to break. And you can’t tell if you’re more terrified of what’s happening—or of how much you’ve come to expect it.

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One day, in the midst of your growing paranoia and frustration, you find yourself mindlessly scrolling on your computer when a strange ad catches your attention: a website for a fortune teller. The colorful banner flickers, promising answers to those who seek them, and normally you’d scoff at something like this. But with everything going on, you find yourself clicking the link. Desperation tugs at your thoughts. Maybe she could explain what’s happening, or at least help make sense of the strange calm that now follows you like a shadow.

The next day, you go. The fortune teller’s shop is tucked away in a quiet part of town, the kind of place you wouldn’t notice unless you were looking for it. Inside, the scent of incense hangs thick in the air, and the room is dimly lit by candles that flicker with every movement. She sits across from you, an older woman with knowing eyes that seem to see right through you.

As you settle into the chair, she doesn’t need much prompting. After a brief introduction, she tells you that she feels something around you, something that clings to you. “There’s a presence,” she says, her voice low and thoughtful. “Usually, a presence like this would be malevolent, something dark and dangerous… but right now, it’s calm. It feels content, almost protective.”

Her words send a chill down your spine. You’ve never bought into this kind of thing before, but something inside you tells you to listen. You can’t deny the truth in her words. That presence, the one you’ve felt trailing you day and night—it’s always there, but never threatening.

She pulls out her tarot deck, shuffling the cards with practiced ease, her fingers nimble as she lays them out on the table. One card catches your eye immediately—the Devil. When she spots it, her breath catches. “The Devil,” she whispers, her voice trembling slightly. “It represents temptation, control, and obsession. But it’s also a card of power, of something… primal. Something that binds itself to you, and once it has, it rarely lets go.”

You sit there, frozen, as she explains the meaning of the card. It’s about being tethered to something you can’t escape from, something that might seduce you with its calm but still holds an underlying danger. You barely hear her as she continues, your thoughts racing.

When you finally leave the fortune teller’s shop, you step out into the street, dazed and conflicted. The cold air bites at your skin, but your mind feels numb. You stand there for a long time, thinking over everything she said, the Devil card burned into your thoughts. The idea that this presence, this voice, is somehow tied to you—content now, but still something to be wary of—it sends your head spinning.

Eventually, you walk to the bus stop, lost in your thoughts. When the bus arrives, you get on, finding an empty seat by the window. As you sit, staring out into the city, you can’t shake the strange feeling again—that presence lingering close, too close. You glance out the window, and for a moment, you swear you see something sitting beside you in the reflection. A shadow, just out of the corner of your eye.

Your heart skips a beat, and you turn to look—but there’s nothing. No one. Just the empty seat beside you, like always. You squint, trying to shake the feeling, and look back at the window. The reflection shows nothing.

You huff in frustration, shaking off the moment, and pull out your phone, trying to distract yourself. But as the bus rolls forward, you can’t help but feel that presence still, hovering just beyond your senses, patient and ever-present.

You step off the bus at the stop you wanted, your mind still racing from the strange encounter on the ride. The air is cool as you walk, your footsteps almost mindless, leading you down familiar streets until you reach the church. Its tall steeple rises against the sky, and you pause for a moment, staring at it. A sigh escapes your lips as you shrug, figuring there’s no harm in trying. Maybe this place, of all places, could offer you some sort of clarity—or peace.

Pushing open the heavy doors, you step into the threshold. The moment you cross over, something shifts. The constant feeling of being watched, that heavy, unshakeable presence, vanishes. It should bring you relief, but instead, a hollow emptiness fills the space where that presence once lingered. You stop in your tracks, feeling strangely vulnerable, exposed in a way you hadn’t expected.

Every cell in your body screams at you to turn back, to leave the church and return to where you felt… safer. But you swallow the feeling, pushing it down as you make your way past the countless rows of benches, your eyes fixed on the altar.

“Hello,” you call out, your voice echoing through the empty space, bouncing off the high ceilings.

“Hello, my child,” a voice responds. You turn to see a priest walking towards you, his face kind, his eyes full of concern. “How may I help you?”

You hesitate for a moment, wondering how to even begin explaining what you’ve been feeling, but something about the priest’s calm demeanor makes it easier. You tell him everything—about the ritual and the feeling of being watched that never left you. He listens carefully, nodding as you speak, never interrupting. When you finish, he places a hand on your shoulder, his expression grave but understanding.

“I think you may benefit from a cleansing,” he suggests gently. “It could help you find peace.”

You’re not sure what peace would even feel like anymore, but you nod anyway, agreeing to the cleansing. He leads you to a small side chapel, where he begins to recite verses, his voice steady and reassuring as he works through the ritual. You stand still, feeling the weight of his words settle around you, like a protective barrier forming between you and whatever it is that’s been haunting you.

When he finishes, you feel lighter—but not in the way you expected. You thank him quietly, offering a small smile before heading back toward the exit. But as you reach the door, you stop, standing just before the threshold. There’s an odd feeling gnawing at you, something that makes you hesitate before stepping outside. You take a deep breath, as if bracing yourself for whatever might come next.

Finally, you step out. You wait for the familiar sensation to return—the feeling of being watched, the strange calm that’s followed you for days. But nothing happens. The air is still. The presence is gone.

You exhale slowly, the tension in your chest loosening, and for the first time in a while, you feel a flicker of relief. Maybe this is what peace feels like. Maybe you’ve finally managed to shake whatever it was that had been clinging to you. You walk down the church steps and start making your way home, your steps lighter, as if the weight of the last few days has lifted.

But as the quiet of the evening settles around you, you can’t help but glance over your shoulder, just to be sure.

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That night, when you finally make your way to bed, something feels off the moment you step into your room. It’s quiet, almost too quiet, and when you glance at your bedside table, the absence hits you immediately. There’s no candle softly flickering, no rose resting beside it. For days, those strange, inexplicable objects had become part of your nighttime routine, and now, without them, your room feels… empty.

You stand there for a moment, staring at the bare space, unsure how to feel. Part of you should be relieved, right? The presence is gone, the priest’s cleansing worked, and now, everything is back to normal. But as you sit on the edge of the bed, you can’t shake the odd sense of unease gnawing at you. That eerie calm you’d come to expect—no matter how unsettling—had become familiar. And now that it’s gone, it feels like something important has been ripped away.

You lie down, pulling the covers up, trying to convince yourself that this is what you wanted. Peace. Quiet. But as the night wears on, you toss and turn, the silence pressing in on you from all sides. Sleep doesn’t come easily. Every time you close your eyes, you expect to hear that soft, whispering voice, or to catch the faint scent of roses in the air. But there’s nothing. Just the cold, stark quiet.

Hours pass, and despite the exhaustion, you can’t seem to find any comfort. The night drags on, restless and heavy, and when you do manage to drift off, it’s into a light, uneasy slumber. The dreams that come are disjointed, dark, and full of shadows that shift and twist just beyond your reach.

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As the days turn into a blur of mundane routines, you find yourself increasingly aware of an emptiness that settles in your chest. It starts subtly, creeping in like the morning fog, but soon it becomes a heavy weight you can’t ignore. You catch yourself glancing around your room, searching for something, but you can’t quite put your finger on what’s missing.

You dismiss it at first. Tell yourself it’s just a phase, a product of the unsettling experience you had in the forest and the church. But deep down, you know what it is.

Each night, when you lay in bed, the absence gnaws at you, louder than your rational thoughts. You try to convince yourself that you don’t need any strange tokens, that their disappearance signifies freedom. But the truth is, you miss the ritual, the soothing presence they offered, even if it was unsettling. They were reminders that you weren’t entirely alone, even if the presence felt like a shadow lurking in the corners of your mind.

You begin to notice it more and more during the day. At work, when the sunlight streams through the window, illuminating everything around you, your thoughts drift to that flickering candlelight. You find yourself distracted, unable to concentrate, imagining the scent of roses filling your room, their petals vibrant and alive. In moments of quiet, when you should feel at peace, your mind wanders back to the eerie calm that came with those objects.

You even catch yourself thinking about the fortune teller’s words, the way she spoke of the Devil card and its implications. Was it truly gone? Or was it simply biding its time, waiting for you to acknowledge its presence again? The uncertainty hangs over you like a storm cloud, dark and oppressive.

Every night, as you prepare for bed, you look at that empty space on your bedside table, and a familiar ache settles in. You want to deny it, want to convince yourself that you’re better off without the strange gifts. But as you drift into an uneasy sleep, the truth lingers just beneath the surface—you miss what once was, even if it was chaotic and frightening.

And the more you deny it, the stronger that longing becomes, until it feels like a part of you is reaching out, desperate to reclaim the connection you once had.

ـــــــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

One night, as the hours dragged on, you found yourself tossing and turning, your mind racing with thoughts that wouldn’t settle. Eventually, you groaned in frustration and opened your eyes, confronting the reality that sleep was eluding you. With a resigned sigh, you sat up, pulling the covers off your body. You felt restless, as if your own skin was too tight.

Navigating through the dark, you made your way to the kitchen, each step a little more deliberate than the last. The house was silent, the only sound the soft padding of your feet on the cool floor. You reached the fridge and pulled out a water bottle, opening it with a quick twist before taking a few long gulps. The cool water felt refreshing, but as you set the bottle down, a familiar shiver raced up your spine.

You froze, instinctively turning slowly around, scanning the dimly lit kitchen. “Hello?” you called out, your voice a soft echo in the stillness. But there was no response, only the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of the wind outside.

Turning back around, you tried to shake off the chill that lingered, but then something shifted in the air. It wasn’t stifling, but it felt heavy, pressing down on you like a weight. A sudden awareness prickled at the back of your neck, and you froze again, feeling a breath whisper past your ear.

It was warm and sweet, mixed with an intoxicating scent of roses and something burning, like incense.

“Hello, little angel,” a sultry voice whispered, sending chills through your body. “Miss me?”

You turned your head slowly, dread pooling in your stomach, and there it was—a black shadow, dark and formless, hovering just inches from your face. Two crimson eyes glinted in the darkness, locking onto yours with an intensity that paralyzed you. You wanted to scream, to run, but your tongue felt heavy and your limbs refused to move. All you could do was stare in terror, heart pounding in your chest as the shadow loomed closer.

In that moment, you understood with horrifying clarity: you weren’t alone anymore.

You could only watch as the shadow moved to stand directly in front of you, your gaze locked onto its form, mouth slightly open in disbelief. The presence was back, and you felt a strange mix of fear and longing bubbling within you. You hadn’t realized how much you missed that voice, that intimate whisper, until it echoed in the stillness of your kitchen once more.

“Excuse my sudden disappearance,” the shadow spoke, its tone smooth and rich, wrapping around you like silk. “The cleansing you underwent caused me to step back. I could only return to you when your soul desired me again.”

Your heart raced as his words registered, the surreal nature of the moment crashing down around you. You found your voice again after the shock wore off, forcing the question out of your throat. “What… are you?”

The shadow paused, then gave a graceful nod as if remembering something important. “Excuse my manners,” he said smoothly, his voice dripping with dark elegance. And then, right before your eyes, the inky figure began to shift. The darkness gave way to a striking form, his transformation almost too breathtaking to believe.

He stood there now, a tall, beautiful man, whose very presence stole the breath from your lungs. His skin with pale, flawless that seemed to glow in the dim light. His black attire was tailored perfectly, hugging his body and adding to the aura of power he exuded. But it was his eyes that drew you in —those deep, red orbs that gleamed with a playful yet dangerous light, and his blond hair fell effortlessly around his soft features. But it was more than just his face that left you spellbound—two long, black horns curved proudly from his head, and behind him, a sleek, horned tail swished lazily through the air. In his hand, he casually twirled a pitchfork, as if it were an extension of himself.

“I am the Devil,” he said with a charming smile, his gaze locked onto yours, “but you may call me Sunoo.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. You stared at him, a whirlwind of emotions crashing through you—fear, intrigue, and an unsettling familiarity. The realization of what he was settled deep within you, mingling with the longing you had tried so hard to suppress. Despite the warnings that echoed in your mind, you couldn’t help but feel drawn to him, to the chaos and the darkness he represented.

The kitchen felt smaller now, the shadows thicker as he took a step closer. “And I have come back for you,” he said, his voice low and enticing, making your heart race faster. His red eyes locked onto yours, and with each word he spoke, the weight of his gaze felt as though it was peeling back your very soul.

“I watched you,” he began, his voice a low rumble, rich with emotion. “The moment I laid eyes on you, I craved you. You ignited a hunger within me that I had thought long extinguished. A mortal like you,” he said, his tone reverent, “looked like an angel in my eyes. Your innocence, your strength, your beauty—each facet drew me closer, wrapping around my heart like a vine.”

As he reached out, his fingers brushed against your cheek, a caress that sent a shiver of warmth through your body. His touch was electric, igniting a spark deep inside you that resonated with every heartbeat. “But then,” he continued, the softness of his voice darkening, “I saw you on that forest floor, hurt and scared for your life. It filled me with fury, a rage that pulsed through my veins. How dare they threaten you?”

He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your skin as he continued, “I sought you out. I stood by you, watching over you as you went about your days, waiting for the moment when you would long for me as I longed for you. I protected you from the darkness that surrounded you, even as I stood in the shadows. I knew this night would come—the time when you would feel my presence and accept me as your own.”

Your heart raced, his words weaving a web of desire and belonging that tightened around your chest. “Your soul now belongs to me,” he whispered, and as the words left his lips, you felt his hand press against your chest, right over your heart. The moment his palm made contact, your heartbeat quickened, a rapid rhythm drumming beneath his touch, as if responding to him alone.

You were so close to him now, his presence overwhelming, the warmth of his body radiating against your own. His gaze never wavered, locking onto you with a hunger that made your skin flush. Without warning, he moved swiftly, twisting you in a fluid motion until your back was pressed firmly against the counter. The cool surface was a stark contrast to the heat that coursed through your body.

Before you could react, his strong hands gripped your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he hoisted you up and set you on the counter. The sensation of his touch lingered, your body humming with warmth as his gaze roamed over you, a possessive fire burning in his eyes.

He took a moment to admire you, his gaze roaming from your head to your toes, as if memorizing every detail. “You complete me,” he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. “I have waited countless millennia for my Queen. And here you are, the one I have searched for. When you were sacrificed to me, I knew your soul would be mine forever.”

As he spoke, you felt a rush of warmth flood through you, like molten gold coursing through your veins. His presence enveloped you, making you feel alive in a way you hadn’t thought possible.

“You are perfect,” he said, his voice low and intimate. “Every inch of you is a work of art, crafted for my eyes alone.” Then, without warning, he leaned in, capturing your lips with his in a kiss that ignited every nerve ending in your body. It was passionate, a collision of heat and longing that left you breathless.

Suddenly, you felt whole, as if the missing pieces of your soul had been returned to you. A wave of warmth washed over you, burning deliciously from the inside out. You melted into him, feeling safe and cherished as he held you close. His kiss deepened, a dance of desire that left you wanting more, while his hands roamed your body, caressing your curves with a tenderness that contrasted with the intensity of his longing.

You lost yourself in him, wrapped in the intoxicating blend of warmth and desire. Every kiss, every gentle caress, felt like a promise—an assurance that you were meant to be together, that you had finally found the place where you belonged. In his embrace, you felt invincible, as if nothing in the world could ever harm you again.

When you pulled back, breathless and dazed, he dove back in, capturing your lips with a fervor that left you reeling. “My angel,” he murmured between kisses, his voice thick with longing, “you don’t understand how much I need you. You are everything to me.” Each word tumbled from his lips like a sacred incantation, wrapping around you and pulling you deeper into his world.

You gasped as he kissed you again, his mouth moving against yours with a hungry urgency that sent shivers down your spine. The warmth of his body pressed against you, and you felt as though you were melting into him, losing all sense of time and space. He was insatiable, a force of nature, and you struggled to keep up with the intensity of his desire.

“I will keep you for myself,” he vowed, his voice so soft that it sent a thrill of excitement through you. “No one will take you from me. I will protect you for all eternity.”

With every kiss, he expressed a need that felt primal, as if he were staking his claim on your soul. You gasped again, trying to keep pace with the whirlwind of emotion that engulfed you both. He pressed against you, the world outside fading into a blur as his presence consumed you. You could feel his heart racing, a rhythm that matched your own, each thump a testament to the bond that was forming between you.

“Please,” he breathed, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes, his red gaze filled with a fierce intensity. “Let me show you what it means to be loved by the Devil. Let me drown you in my devotion.”

As he pulled back slightly, his red eyes shimmering with intensity, he asked, “Will you come with me? Will you rule beside me as my Queen?” The weight of his question hung in the air, and you felt your heart race at the thought of a life intertwined with his—a life where you would stand by his side, embracing the darkness and light together.

Looking into those mesmerizing, molten eyes, a wave of certainty washed over you. You found yourself nodding, breathless as the words tumbled from your lips. “Yes, I’ll come with you.”

A wide grin spread across his face, a radiant joy that illuminated his features. The sight sent a rush of warmth through you, igniting a fire that burned hotter than ever before. He leaned in, capturing your lips once more in a passionate kiss that left you dizzy. The heat between you surged, enveloping you in a cocoon of warmth that made you feel like you were burning from the inside out.

In the blink of an eye, the world around you shifted. When you opened your eyes, you found yourself in a magnificent room bathed in rich, lavish reds. The walls pulsed with a warm glow, and golden accents shimmered in the ambient light, highlighting the opulence that surrounded you. You were nestled on a grand bed, the silken sheets beneath you soft and cool, cradling you like clouds.

Turning your head, you saw him standing a few feet away, his red eyes locked onto you, radiating affection and adoration. His presence was comforting, that it made your chest swell with joy. You belonged here—with him.

As if reading your thoughts, he climbed into bed beside you, pulling you close. His arms wrapped around you, strong yet gentle, holding you with a protective warmth that made you feel safe. A wide grin spread across his face, and you noticed how his eyes almost disappeared when he smiled, his soft cheeks lifting in a way that made him look so much more human, so endearing.

It almost made you want to reach out and squish his cheeks—this unexpected softness he showed you. His red eyes glimmered with love, as if you were the center of his universe. “My Queen,” he said, his voice filled with pride and affection.

You smiled back at him, feeling the weight of the bond that now intertwined your souls. “My King,” you whispered in return.

His grin widened as he hugged you even closer, his hold warm and reassuring. The titles felt right, as if they’d always been meant for the two of you.

[alphajocklover]

No longer a Spider, finally a Man

**Hey! First time doing a fanfic muscle growth. Or at least posting it. I hope you guys like it! Please tell me how I can do better, and send in story suggestions if you want!**

Peter Parker loved being Spider-Man. He loved saving people, he loved using his powers to make a difference, he loved swinging through the sky line. But he also hated it. He hated the pressure, the responsibility, the fact that he nd his loved ones were in constant danger, the fact that he was always lying to everyone. He hated that he could never be normal. But then again Peter had never been very normal. Even before becoming Spider-man he had been a nerd. Smart, socially awkward, and tormented by the popular kids. That didn’t exactly change after becoming Spider-Man either, though his social issues had definitely gone to the back burner with him constantly fighting crime. If he was being honest his social life had only gotten worse since becoming a superhero. He had gained some muscle and no longer needed glasses, yes, but he couldn’t exactly show that. He hadn’t had time for his friends, his normally fantastic grades were slipping, and Flashes bullying had only gotten worse.

As Peter, out of costume, walked to Midtown, he wondered what it would be like to be a normal teenager. Not just what it would be like to not be Spider-Man, but to not be a nerd. He wondered what it would be like to be a regular teenage boy. Maybe if he wasn’t Spider-Man he could have even been… cool or something. Probably not, but it was still a nice fantasy. Just as he was imagining this, his spider-sense went off. He looked around, prepared to jump out of the way of any danger, but, even with his super reflexes, he couldn’t get out of the way before the strange something hit him right in the middle of his chest. Peter stumbled back, not realizing that the reality stone, one of the infinity stones, had lodged itself inside of his heart. Normally such a thing would kill someone, or at least hurt them, but due to the magic nature of the stone it phased through his chest and inside of him without harming him. Peter blinked. What… just happened? He had sworn something had just flown into his chest but… wouldn’t that have killed him or something? Before he could investigate further, an alarm on his phone began to ring. Crap, he was late for class! Peter ran into the school as the power of the reality stone seeped into his blood. He turned a corner, just a hallway away from his classroom, when he almost ran straight into a wall of muscle, his super-reflexes being the only thing that saved him. As he skirted to a halt, he came face to face with his biggest tormentor (supervillains and news editors notwithstanding) : Flash Thompson. The most popular jock in school and Peter Parker's personal bully. The blond quarterback sneered cockily at Peter before he spoke

“Hey there Puny Parker. Running late again? I thought geeks like you were supposed to be punctual and shit?” Flash said with a cocky mocking laugh.

“What do you want, Flash?” Peter asked with a scowl, trying to keep his patience.

“Just checking up on my favorite nerd.” Flash mocked, grabbing Peter’s arm. Before Peter could react, Flash had shoved him up against the locker, peters arm pinned behind his back. What the heck? He had super powers, enhanced reflexes, he should have been able to see that coming. Peter didn’t realize that his subconscious desire to be normal was repressing his powers. Unable to fight back, Peter was shoved into a nearby open locker and locked inside. Peter sighed. Stuck in a locker again. Peter didn’t notice as the orange light in his chest began to glow. He closed his eyes and deeply wished… to stop being a loser. To be normal. To be… anything else than who he was. The orange light grew brighter and brighter… until it completely consumed Peter. Suddenly he heard something

“Parker… Parker!”

With a start Peter Parker woke up, looking around in shock. He was… in a classroom? He was sitting at a desk at the back of a class he didn’t recognize, one that he seemed to have been sleeping through. Had all of that been a crazy dream? He looked over to see the remedial math teacher, Ms Jones. What was he doing in remedial math? Before he could say anything, Ms Jones spoke once more

“Mr Parker, please try to stay awake during class. Your grade is already low enough.” She said, sending a chuckle throughout the room. Peter spoke without thinking, his voice deeper and fuller than he remembered.

“Sorry teach. I’m still tired from our ‘study session’ last night. Thanks for the extra tutoring by the way~” he said. Did he just… flirt with a teacher? He did! And weirdly enough the slight embarrassed blush on Ms Jones face suggested that it was working. Ms. Jones spoke again, more timid this time

“While.. just don’t be late tonight.” She said with a slight wink, before walking over to the front of the classroom again. This caused the class, which now that Peter was looking consisted mostly of the football team, too laugh loudly, one punching Peter on the shoulder in a playful manner. Peter felt a smirk he couldn’t control come over his face, and his eyes involuntaries followed Ms Jones' ass as she walked back to the front of the class. In a daze, Peter tried to figure out what was happening. Wasn’t he just in a locker? What was he doing in remedial math? And why was he acting so weird? Before he could wonder any further, the bell rang and class was dismissed. Peter ran out without talking to anyone, and headed to a nearby bathroom. He looked in the mirror and froze. It was Peter but… completely different. He was bigger, taller, with wider shoulders. He had full, bouncy pecs that were barely contained by his tank top, shredded abs that he could grate cheese on, and truly impressive biceps. Peter had gone from a geek who gets stuffed into lockers to a huge muscular jock! Peter wanted to be shocked, to be horrified, but… he felt another smirk cross his face. He began to flex his muscles cockily. He smirked and felt his thoughts turn. He looked fucking amazing! I mean, of course he did. He was big Pete Parker, the big man, the quarterback, the stud! Slowly Peter began to forget about his old self, too absorbed in the strong, dull thoughts going through his head. He wondered what he and his best bro Flash would do after football practice? Maybe beat up some geeks, or find a hottie to hook up with? Peter had a lot of girls to choose from already, including MJ, Liz, Gwen, Charlie and of course Ms Jones, but… he wouldn’t mind another. Pete smirked and strut out of the bathroom, not noticing a light orange glow between his pecs. Life was fucking sweet.

[agathaswoman]

Blood or Loyalty

Pairing — Rhaenyra Targaryen x Queensguard Fem!Reader and Alicent Hightower x Kingsguard Fem!Reader's Twin

Word Count — 1,254

Request — Yes or No

Hi how have you been 

I have a story that I think will be interesting if you don’t mind writing it 

so if have watched the latest episode of HOD then you know the twin ser arryk was sent to pretend to be his brother ser errik so he can murder the queen but in the fanfic idea I have the reader has a twin who stayed back in kings landing with the greens because she’s in love with Alicent, but aegon sends the reader’s twin to dragon stone to pretend to be the reader and kill rhaenyra and you can decide how it ends 

Does she die  or does she catch on

Summary — Having to face your twin with your sword pointing at her and vice versa. Will your moral and loyalty for the rightful heir Queen Rhaenya will falter while trying to stop your beloved twin from harming the Queen?

Warnings — violence, anxiety attack, and breaking down

A/N — hi, yes, im back after years of hiatus T_T and im here again because of House of the Dragon omg i just love this series so much and tbh i still haven't watched any episodes on season 2 since im still waiting for it to finish hehe BUT i've seen some clips so i have bit of an idea  about the request. what team are y'all on? im team black since day 1 !!!

please do not repost or try and take ownership of my work. reblogs, likes, and comments are always welcome. i do not own any of the characters.

It is currently a slow night for you as you are patrolling the castle grounds, clad in your full armor while clutching the hilt of your sword that you named, ‘Porphura Hexen.’ Whereas ‘Porphura’ means purple, which is associated with “nobility, power, and ambition” while ‘Hexen’ comes from how people make rumors about you practicing witchcraft because of the unexplainable deaths of the men that tried to win your heart, where it's a guarantee that they will meet their demise. It's either they die on battlefields, catch a sickness that does not have a cure, or even how the family of those men slowly lose their riches and connections.

You were looking over the castle's embrasure when you heard unusual heavy footsteps that you hadn't heard ever since Queen Rhaenyra made you her Queensguard. You quickly unsheathed ‘Porphura Hexen’ as you stealthily followed the noise, you immediately quickened your pace when you heard Queen Rhaenyra's soft voice saying your name. You immediately barged into her room, and there, you saw your twin sister clutching her sword tightly and pointing its tip toward the Queen.

“Sestra!” You called your twin in your native language.

Without hesitation, you charged forward with your sword to attack your twin to take her attention off the Queen. She instantly turned your way and blocked your attack.

“What are you doing, sestra?!” You shouted at her trying to put some sense in her head.

“King's order! This is the King's order!” She shouted back at you as she was trying to prevent your sword from getting close to her neck.

“King's order, my arse! Stop this madness now! Are you out of your mind for trying to harm the rightful heir of the Iron Throne?!” You screamed at her as you put your strength on your legs so you could stand your ground and let the Queen run out of the room.

“My Queen! Go! Leave the room!” You said as you pushed your sister's body far from the Queen's way with the help of the force from your legs.

You heard your sister's body crash on a shelf which made the books fall on top of her head. So, you immediately went to your Queen's side and helped her up so she could escape the room along with the servant who got involved in the mess.

“Go, My Queen. I'll handle this,” when Rhaenyra was about to run along with the servant next to her, you reached for her wrist and gave her your dagger, quietly exchanging silent stares, “Take this. Be careful…my Queen.” 

You didn't wait for Rhaenyra's response as you immediately dodged an attack from your twin when she aggressively swung her sword at you.

“Go! Alert the guards!” You felt guilty for trying to order the Queen but it will always be your mission to guarantee the Queen's safety, no matter what.

Once you were sure that the Queen had a safe distance from your twin, you gave all your focus towards her and only deflected her attacks to you.

After a minute of only deflecting your twin's attacks, she cornered you into a corner with her blade's tip pointing at your neck, “Sestra…we should be in this together. You and I, just like the old times. We're born together, aren't we?” she tried to convince you.

“This isn’t just about the King's order…isn't it?” You asked, staring right into her eyes. Ever since the both of you are young gals, she can never hide the way her eyes falter when it is faced with your own piercing eyes.

She avoided your gaze, “It's about the Queen Dowager, ain't it?” She remained silent, only her shaky breaths indicated that your guess was right. “She's only using you, sestra!”

“My affairs with the Queen Dowager aren't and shouldn't be any of your concern,” she raised her voice a little bit when you spoke the truth.

“Not my concern? Have you gone mad?!” You looked at her with anger, not seeing the person in front of you as your twin sister anymore. You scoffed while frowning at her, “Just like the old times, huh? We took an oath! A vow, sestra! We are to fulfill our sacred duty To protect and serve the realm! Where have your honor and morals gone to, huh? They usurped Queen Rhaenyra's throne! The rightful heir!”

You sighed, leaned your head on the wall behind you, “Sestra…” Your twin whispered as she slowly lowered her blade pointing at your neck. 

You looked straight into her eyes, “We were born together, weren't we?” You said as you swiftly plunged your extra dagger into your twin's stomach, “You parted us…you forgot your oath, our vow, sestra.”

You watched her fall on her knees with blood coming out of her mouth and eyes going dull in seconds, “But I still love you, sestra.”

A thud was heard when your twin's body completely fell on the floor, her eyes looking at you with a lone tear streaming down to her cheek and the stone-cold floor.

You fell on your knees as you stared at her cold dead body. You heard multiple footsteps entering the room but you only focused on your twin's form as you slowly closed her lifeless eyes.

You took a deep sigh as you stood up with a grunt whilst picking up your sword. You faced the small council that gathered in the room with only their sleeping garments, “The assassinator of the Queen that was sent by The Greens has been exterminated.” You reported to them.

You swallowed deeply when you felt the urge to sob, but not here. Not in front of them. As the small council kept on discussing the event that happened, Rhaenyra only stared at you. She saw how your hands were quivering while trying to calm them by gripping your sword's hilt.

Rhaenyra cleared her throat, and the small council immediately turned silent, “Ser Y/N, you're dismissed. You've done enough for the day.”

You immediately turned your head at the Queen, “But, My Queen. With all due respect, as your Queensguard, it is my dut–”

“I am fully aware of what your duty is, Ser Y/N” Rhaenyra took a deep breath, “As my Queensguard, I need you on your best. So, please, take a rest. At least, just for a while.”

“We will still need you, Ser Y/N,” Rhaenys, Ser Corlys's wife, added.

Ser Alfred approaches you and pats your shoulder, “I'll take care of the things here myself. Now, in the meantime, take a rest.”

You sighed as most of the votes were against you staying around the small council. So, you dismissed yourself and went straight ahead to your room.

As you entered your room, you carefully took off your silver armor on your body and placed it neatly on its storage. You took your bloodied dagger as you sat on the edge of your bed.

The moment you sat on your bed, your twin’s voice rang inside your head, “Sestra, you…a-are always the better between the both of us. K-Keep believing y-yourself…and keep p-protecting the Q-Queen…Rhaenyra. I love you…” Your twin sister breathed her last breath after saying her last words.

You sighed deeply as you stood up and took a damp cloth to clean your dagger. As you are cleaning your sharp dagger, you feel your tears falling onto your hands. Soft sobs rang inside your room as you broke down behind closed doors, missing your twin's presence more than ever.

[feverinfeveroutfic]

”django tango”

wrote this back on thursday when i had a break and i was thinking about like blood from a stone ❤️‍🔥🩸���

The sun hit his head and shoulders as he stood in between the two columns of the entryway to the warehouse. I had always been captivated by the shape and tightness of those lush curls, especially when they began to grow so long down past his shoulders. I watched him from clear across the pavement, the way that he acted over there with his band and their fitted black leather around their lanky little bodies.

I had my eye on them like a rich bastard wringing his hands at a bunch of golden bars, but on him in particular. He was like the Hope Diamond, as those eyes gazed out as if he was staring straight into my soul and preparing to take me under. At some point, he had apparently dyed his gray sliver in favor of rich black, but I knew those eyes and that olive skin anywhere. It was like meeting a part of my soul again.

The interesting thing about was I had only met him once before, and that was about three weeks ago: they were playing in some club not too far from where I lived in Orlando, and I happened to catch them after they had taken the stage following Metallica. I had only attended that show to witness them, but to watch those five men up there was something that I could resist for myself.

I had my eye on him in particular, the way that his long black hair spread behind him as if he stood in the sweetest winds from an incoming band of a hurricane, the lanky shape of his body and the way that his hips seemed a bit more prominent than the rest of him. His fingers wandered about the fretboard of his guitar as if it had grown out of his body and became just another appendage for him: those hands, in all their lanky might, complete with that spiderweb of veins near his wrists as they wandered all the way down to his elbows, made me fantasize about anything and everything he could possibly do for me.

I had spent the last few months fighting with my girlfriend and yet there seemed to be no end in sight for us at all, and thus, I welcomed the sight of him with open arms. I had never seen a boy so gorgeous before, even in all my years down there in Florida away from Long Island.

He was one of those boys who looked a lot older than he was, mainly because of the streak on his head but also from the maturity he had up there. It was something that I wanted to see more of in my own band, with the proverbial revolving door behind me.

I had made my way up to the stage at one point, and right as he was ripping out a solo no less: I watched him bow his head and let the guitar body rest against his thigh and his hip. His hair cascaded down his arm and his chest like water; I was close enough so he could look down and see me even through the darkness of the pit around me. Behind me, a mosh pit was beginning to form, but I had my attention fixed onto him. He gave his hair a toss back with the flick of his head, and it was at that moment that I could see his whole raw face, not obscured by his hair.

Even with the slight milkiness to his complexion, I could tell he wasn't a white boy. Those thick eyebrows, that bulbous tip of the nose... all he lacked was a Magen David wrapped around his neck. I licked my lips at the sight of him even as it seemed as though he had his attention fully fixated on his pick and the music all around him: at one point, he raised his gaze and locked eyes with me for a good long moment. He flicked an eyebrow at me, followed by a puckering of his lips.

If I could only figure him out right then. There had to be a way back to him, a way to crack into his mind without any questions asked.

I spotted the entrance over to the backstage area on the other side of the stage itself, and I hoped that I would be able to meet him back there. I lingered off to the side with a small stack of amps: I couldn’t believe how easy it was for me to hunker down back there, especially when I knew how difficult it was for fans to even catch up with me following a gig. His band filed off the stage, one after the other, whereby he returned at the rear and with his hair sprawled all around his neck and shoulders.

“Well, hi,” he greeted me, slightly out of breath; and yet his skin had not a single bead of sweat to be found anywhere. He looked as though he’d been sitting in a warm room this whole entire time.

“Hi there,” I returned the favor to him, and I ran my fingers through the curls on the side of my head. He showed me a little smile as he breezed past me to the shelf right behind me; I followed him there only to find that they had a coffee maker as well as a jug of what appeared to be mulled wine and a pair of accompanying ceramic cups.

“Care for a cup of coffee or something?” he offered to me with a slight squint to his eyes.

“A bit of coffee would be nice,” I said to him. I watched his every move, from the way that he cradled the mug inside of his hand to the way he poured the coffee out from the carafe: it was like watching water flow out from under dark vines, as his hair flowed all around his back and shoulders.

“Care for some cream?” he offered me, and he never changed his expression for a second, as if he was in fact seducing me.

“Just a little kiss of cream,” I replied in a small voice. A little caress of the cream deep inside my coffee. He stirred it for me and handed it over to me so he could serve himself a cup.

I lingered right across from him as he turned around and faced me with his eyelids hooded.

“You’re from… Death, right?” he asked me, slightly reluctant.

“Yeah.” I paused for a second with my mug nestled in between my hands as if I was offering him a chalice. “How’d you know?”

“I’ve seen you in San Francisco,” he replied. “You hung out with Jeff and the guys from Possessed in Ruthie’s. I was on the other side of the room. I recognize your curly hair.”

“What, and you didn’t say ‘hi’?” I teased him, to which he chuckled.

“I had to go,” he explained. “I had to get my ass back home or my parents would have a heart attack at the same time. But I do recognize you, though.” He leaned against the edge of the table with his legs crossed and his hips cocked out a bit: he held the mug up to his cherry lips as if he was about to take a sip, but he never did, however. He instead locked eyes with me, those bright luminous eyes that shone through the dark as if to light my way through the throes of infinity.

I could feel something in there, something that I never thought I would ever feel before with anyone, especially with him. He licked his lips and took a small sip of his coffee. Just the way he drank it down was enough to send a chill down my spine, and such that I nearly dropped my mug without even thinking about it.

He then closed his eyes and shook his head about at the taste of the coffee.

“Delicious?” I asked him.

“Very much so,” he said. “Warm and earthy.”

I nibbled on my bottom lip and took a deep drink of my coffee. It was nice and warm, and I couldn’t help but feel something when I looked long and hard at him. I wasn’t going to forget him, that was for certain,

And there I was, not too far from him and the band stood before him as if they stood for a modeling show all together. Meanwhile, we had a photoshoot about a block away from there, an all important one because we had yet another lineup change and I wasn't too keen on the label being what they were. Another photoshoot for another few bucks, I supposed.

But it was a surprise to see him over there by the warehouse, where we were supposed to record the album as well. The wind made his hair twirl and billow about behind his head as if he was posing for a modeling job at some sexy magazine. He tucked his hands into his jean pockets and tugged his jeans down a bit to show off a small sliver of skin from under the hem.

Something so cute about him, even when I thought about all of the seductive glances he flicked over to me.

He set one foot up onto the concrete beam before them, and he squinted in the light of the sun as it washed clean over his face. The four men next to him all let their hair fly all around them, as if they all modeled for some erotic magazine.

I had to go over there to talk to them, but especially to him. I felt something with him, something that I wanted to investigate and explore with him right there right next to me.

The five of them stood there like a row of marble statues, all of them right before the photographer who waved at them, and they all relaxed as a result. He ran his fingers through his dark hair and let it cascade all around his upper back and shoulders like water. His lips were full and sensual, perfect for kisses and as ripe and smooth as cherries. Even from a distance, I could see him in all of his full, voluptuous glory.

They took another few photographs before they relaxed and lingered back away from the arches.

I had to find my way over to him. I had to come close to him again, and that time, I had to strip away all of my prejudices and all of his prejudices as well. There was something between us, something that needed to give way. It was going to drive me crazy otherwise.

I spotted a trail over to the door to the building, and I knew I was going to have to make this quick.

My band was about to head in for a photoshoot, but I knew for a fact that it was going to take us a couple of hours. A couple of hours was more than enough for me: I peered over my shoulder to make sure I could buy myself some time. I returned to them and made a run for it.

I scurried over to that doorway and leaned my back to the wall behind me so no one would have to see me back there. I held still lest the breeze flutter my hair about, and then I made my way over to the doorway itself. I stood there with my hands on the actual door frame as if I awaited taking my prince home with me.

My prince awaited me upstairs. My prince awaited me as if he needed to be saved from his own comeuppance.

I ran my fingers through my curls and let them flutter about the crown of my head, and then I hurried up the stairs as if I was leading a march of sorts.

The five of them looked to be preparing to leave the building, but I had to make my move on him, though. He turned in my direction, right as a breeze welled up and let tendrils of his inky black hair fly up around his head. He showed me an unsure smile, accentuated by the sunlight that cast in through the arches next to them. He was undoubtedly the odd man out, just by the mere presence of the gray streak upon his head alone.

I always had a thing for the oddballs, the proverbial aliens, the ones who never fully walked congealed with their chosen crowd. Three of them laughed about something as if they were all brothers, but he lingered off to the side, this little wallflower with the minute plume of gray in his hair. I scurried over to him, right as he showed me a little smile, which in turn brought a twinkle to his eye and a slight roundness to his cheekbones.

“Hey,” he greeted me; his voice was low and round, and yet I could hear him talk dirty to me whenever he felt like it. He was sensual, and more so when he unzipped his jacket and showed off his Gary Moore shirt to me. The bottom hem of his shirt had raised off the top of his pants to show off a strip of creamy smooth skin on his waist. I nibbled on my bottom lip: I could not take my eyes off of him, right there in front of me.

“You’ve got a good scene here, big fella,” I told him.

“I try my best,” he assured me as he nudged a lock of hair back from the side of his face. “It was suggested that we come here for the photoshoot, so… here we are.” Another gust of wind came up next to us and billowed our hair about some more; a cloud of fine cement dust kicked up off to the left of us, such that he inched away from there with a wave of his hand before his face.

“It’s awfully dusty,” I told him with a quick glimpse around the big spacious room around us. “You should be where my band is going to be for the next few hours right across the street.”

“Yeah, let’s go where it’s not so windy,” he suggested to me, and as we were walking out of there, he said the same thing to those three guys there; one of them flashed us both a thumbs up. We headed back downstairs to the doorway below, but before I could lead him out of there, I stopped him right in his tracks so I could take a single look out to the street.

“I'm actually not supposed to be over here,” I told him in a low voice.

“Bad boy, wandering off from the group,” he teased me, to which I cracked him a mischievous grin.

“Hey, you're the bad boy,” I retorted. “Pulling me from the crowd.”

“You wandered up to me like flies on shit,” he said, and I took a peek around the corner to make sure no one was across the street. The coast was clear, and I gestured for him to follow me. It was amazing how his band just let us go and hang out for a while, unless they were done for the day: I doubted it, but I had my guess, though.

He tucked his hands into his snug jean pockets, and he let his long dark hair stream behind him with the wind: his bangs fluttered into his eyes; with the hem of shirt as short as it was, he really looked like a young boy.

“You and I should do something together,” he suggested.

“Like what?” I asked him as I nudged a lock of hair back from the side of my face to right behind my ear.

“Oh, you know, we should have a little bit of fun,” he replied, to which he showed me his tongue. “You know, something more than this and what we had the first time we met each other.”

“Like what?” I repeated. “A round of ice cream and then lay out under the stars with our bellies hanging out?”

He chuckled at that, and his laughter sounded so joyous and hearty, as if it really did come straight from his smooth svelte little belly.

“Well, I figure that you and I have plenty of time...” And his voice trailed off; he turned his attention over to the stretch of trees on the far side of the grass before us.

“We should go over there and jack off together,” he suggested to me.

“Jack off after we've had a couple of guzzles from the bottle?” I offered him a little gesture to my mouth, and he showed me that little grin.

“We don't have anything to drink, though,” he pointed out.

“You wanna play around and have a few brewskies?” I suggested. “You know, I can get us a couple of beers if you'd like. I'm old enough to buy us some juice.”

“Are you, now?” he asked me.

“Indeed I am. Although if I'm honest, I have a hard time seeing you faking an ID.”

“With this thing, you have no idea the degree of the shit I can get away with,” he quipped with a gesture to the plume of gray upon his head. “People always think I'm way older just on my appearance alone.”

“Something really dangerous about that.”

“Again, you have no idea. And while it makes me old, it makes me feel old, too. You know, a nineteen-year-old boy should look and feel nineteen, not thirty two.”

He then sighed through his nose and gave his hair a little toss back before he returned to me.

“Do you ever feel ugly?” he continued. “Like you aren't worth the time and effort from another person?”

“All the time,” I said with a shake of my head. “All the time. I often feel like no one could ever love my body or at the very least appreciate it from afar. Helps that I had a bad breakup earlier this year, too.”

“It's funny because... I did, too,” he replied. “Broke up with my girlfriend of nearly seven months. It was particularly devastating to me because I had never really had a relationship before.”

“Wow,” I remarked.

“I'm an errant fleeting contradiction,” he confessed with a shake of his head.

“If it makes you feel any better, I feel that way, too,” I pointed out as we crossed the grass over to the trees. From there, I could tell that they looked out to the cold bay waters, and there was a spot in between the trees for us to hang out in and have a moment to ourselves. I nibbled on my bottom lip as I thought of doing something there with him. He was silent as we reached the trees and the sweet caress of the shade.

“Okay, so how do you wanna do this?” I asked him. “You wanna just... do it yourself or would you like me to join you?”

“Join me?” He raised his eyebrows at that.

“Yeah. Have you ever done that before?”

“Actually, yes, believe it or not.”

“Care to share?” I offered him, and I gestured for him to have a seat down on the grass. He took his spot there under the tree with his legs spread out and the bottom hem of his shirt only just kissing the top of his jeans: a slender boy but he had just the tiniest bit extra flesh on his body, which I liked quite a bit. I took my seat next to him there on the grass, and I spread my legs out before me as if I was about to have a moment myself.

“The first time I did it with Eric and Lou, the three of us sat back to back,” he told me, and I looked over at him, baffled.

“Back to back?” I demanded. “What's so hot about that?”

“It actually was hot!” he declared. “The three of us kinda... leaned back like you're doing right now. Like when you get all hot and bothered and you feel like your pants are getting a little too tight.” I leaned back towards the trunk of the tree behind us and spread my legs; he leaned in closer to me so we touched shoulders with each other.

“So, you were leaning up against each other and tugging on the hoses and—”

“It was just the thought of being there,” he explained. “The thought of having my back to them both, and the soft little whimpers they gave to me, like I remember Eric breathing harder but there was something so titillating about it all.”

“What was the other guy doing?”

“Who, Lou?”

“Yeah.”

“He was sticking his tongue out like a dog,” he replied. “I thought of asking him to wrap around my dick but the thought escaped me almost immediately.”

“So, we get going and maybe—you wanna—?” I offered him.

“If you'd like,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders and a lopsided little grin on his face. I brought my gaze up to the crown of his head.

“By the way... let me just say that I absolutely love how curly and kinky your hair is,” I confessed.

“It's what I get for being Ashkenazi,” he replied.

“Hey, me, too! L'chaim!” And I raised my fist to him so he could bump the backs of my knuckles.

“To life,” he said, and then he unzipped his pants.

“Oh, you wanna get down to it?” I asked him, and I inched my legs away from him so we could somewhat have our backs to each other. There was something interesting about it, the fact that we were outside in broad daylight with nothing more than trees and bushes to act as our protection from any wandering eyes and the fact that we both had a great deal of time to have together. There was also the fact that it was just the two of us there out in nature.

“It's either now or never, my brother,” he whispered to me.

“It's like the pressure just builds,” I said with a chuckle; I unzipped my jeans. Part of me wanted to take them off all the way, but I had no idea if someone could stumble upon us and see us fucking in the bushes.

“The smoker you drink, the drunker you smoke,” he chided. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him use both hands on himself. I leaned up against his shoulder blade and the side of his back to steady myself; for me, all I needed was the flick of my wrist and the work of one hand and two fingers to get myself going. And yet, even though it was so easy for me, I still felt like there was something else that needed to be done. The top of my pants hugged my hips, and thus, not a lot of room for me to grow.

We were outside, out in broad daylight with the breeze blowing over our skin, but I had the itch I couldn't scratch for myself.

I sighed through my nose and I lifted my hips off the grass a bit. I nudged my pants down my hips.

That felt better. Now I could do it a great deal right then.

“Yeah, there we go,” he grunted out, and then he gasped. Another lap of the breeze swept over us, which in turn sent a chill up my spine, which in turn sent more feeling down below my belt. I stuck the tip of my pink finger into the hole, and the rough feeling of the callus on my skin tickled me so much.

He gasped again, and that time he leaned his head onto my shoulder. I closed my eyes and let the feeling wash over me.

We both surrendered. He was doing it to himself, and I was doing it to myself.

I was cold, but I was warm at the same time. He breathed into my ear; I looked over at him to see that he had grown so big and full. I licked my lips and brought my head down onto his lap.

His skin was warm and smooth, even sweet like the taste of rugelach straight out of the oven. I wrapped my tongue around his shaft like that of a snake; he gasped again, and that time he followed it up with a low moan. We were outside, and thus the noise of the outside acted as our safeguard against any passersby that could possibly hear us there.

I licked on him, all the way up the side of his shaft to his head. He tasted so good, and I knew he was loving every second of it: at one point, I opened my eyes to see his eyes closed and his lips parted in utmost euphoria.

I was going to make him come. We had gotten each other started, and now I was going to finish it.

I put my lips around him and I sucked on him as if we were going out of style. I moved in as deep as I could on him, to the point the tip nearly hit the back of my throat.

I did it a second time, that time with a bit of teeth, and that made him open his mouth all the way as if to yelp out, but he never did. Instead, I tasted something else on the back of my tongue, and I swallowed it down. I let go of him and ran my tongue all around the rim of my mouth to rid of anything extraneous, and then I leaned into his face for a kiss on those full lips of his.

“Mmm, you’re very sexy,” I told him as I stroked my fingers through his hair.

“You know, I try my best,” he replied with a smirk on his face and a slight hooding to his eyes. “I think I hear people coming.”

“Let 'em look, big boy,” I teased him with another kiss.

And I was being serious about that.

[nuagederose]

a tale of two joeys 🌙🩸

(now it’s dark/sci-fi joey + like blood from a stone/rags to riches joey)

[josiebelladonna]

paraselenae | lily of the valley

pairing: chuck billy x cliff burton (like blood from a stone)

genre: royalty au

fandoms: testament and metallica

*18+ only; minors dni*

Warnings: blindfolds, sex outside

*Please note that you are responsible for your own media consumption. I came here to write and relax, not police you.*

Summary: alex, eric, and chuck (schuldiner) are minding their own business getting something to eat when they notice a little hanky-panky going on in a nearby stretch of grass

Word Count: 4586

(drawing by me, don't you dare take)

“Come and lay with me.”

Those were the words that had haunted me for what felt like so many minutes at a time. They came to me as if they appeared in a dream as I was just waking up for the brand-new day before me. I opened my eyes, and I rolled my head over the top of the pillow to find my new groom lying there next to me with his squarish face pointed in my direction: those luminescent eyes hid away from me under a veil of shadow and sun-kissed skin.

Maybe I was merely imagining it for myself, but I could hear it echoing through my mind, however.

“Come and lay with me.”

Moreover, I had no idea as to whom he was saying it to. He could be saying it to me, or he could have been dreaming as far as I knew. Those smooth dark lips parted ever so slight, and they breathed out a gentle sigh for me. His breath still smelled of peppermint from brushing his teeth the night before: there was a part of me that wanted to kiss him right on those lips, a little good morning kiss, but something held me back, however. I swallowed, and I moved my head back over the top of the pillow all so I could stare straight up to the ceiling overhead.

The room was cold: I shivered and tugged the blankets up over the bare part of my chest as well as my collar bones. I nestled down further into the mattress, and all the while, I tried to return to sleep, but alas, I could not. Nature was calling me, and I yearned for a cup of coffee as well.

I opened my eyes a second time, and that time, I caught a glimpse of the clock on the nightstand right next to me.

My mouth dropped open when I saw that it was nearly eight in the morning: I usually got up at around sunrise, so we could have a fresh pot of coffee before breakfast and before Chuck woke up no less.

We were arranged into a marriage, and yet, I couldn’t help but love him. He was like an older brother to me. I knew that that was an odd thing to say given we had married one another, but there was no denying as to how I felt about him.

And then, there was the other Chuck whom I loved.

The other Chuck, the boy from Florida who originally hailed from Long Island. The other Chuck whom I believed was my soulmate through and through. Every man alive had an angel of his own, the one whom he always returned to in the end, against all odds and against everything that the world threw at him, and my angel came with long dark curls and eyes that seemed to light up even in complete darkness. How I longed to touch and feel his body against my own, and how I longed for the two of us to run off together into the darkness, a couple of thieves in the night away from the world and away from all the cruelty that came after us to separate us and arrange us into holes that we needn’t have in the first place.

I ran my tongue along my bottom lip like that of a snake, and I slithered out from underneath the covers. The bare soles of my feet rested upon the beige carpet: we really had to get rid of this carpet, simply because it was so ugly, but also because overnight, it grew so cold; but also, because it was ugly. Chuck wanted something red and shaggy, and I knew that we could have something both red and gold, given we were newlyweds and crown princes at that point. But the man liked his shag carpet, though, like how he liked my shag carpet as well.

I smoothed down the sides of my head, but really, it was to feel the smoothness of my hair at the crown. I shuffled my feet underneath me, and I walked on over to the bedroom door: I hesitated there for a second for a glimpse back at Chuck still sound asleep there in the bed. I looked at the golden wedding band around my left ring finger, and I picked at it for a few seconds. We both had been forced into this whole thing pretty much against our will, simply because we were in a band together.

I peered over my shoulder yet again, and that time, I shivered a bit, even though it wasn’t very cold in the hallway there.

I was still shirtless, and I still needed my cup of coffee at that time of morning.

As I headed on down to the kitchen, I peered out the window by the front door, and I spotted the fine gray marine layer stretched across the sky out there. Another overcast day there in the Bay Area, and one where neither of us had any idea if it was going to rain at all. Sometimes, when it grew cloudy like that, we retreated inside for the day and rehearsed or jammed out songs together: there was a part of me that wanted it to rain because I was itching to play out a little riff that I had been kicking around for a few weeks up to that point. I ran my hands all along my bare upper arms, and yet, I relished the fact that I was walking around with no shirt on, and I was the only one awake at that point.

I ran my hand down my bare chest onto my bare belly, and I thought about indulging in something sweet for breakfast that morning. After coffee, of course.

I started up the coffee maker, and I leaned up against the counter’s edge with my arms folded across my chest. I closed my eyes and sighed through my nose.

How I wanted him. How I wanted to forfeit the crown to go and be with him in the end. How I wished to feel his body next to me: it had been some time since I last saw him, and we got together for a little round of lovemaking. It was before the wedding. The last time he and I spent some time together, it was the penultimate night of my bachelorhood.

I could still feel the soft grass under my head, and the smell of the ocean breeze over our bodies. An evening I would never forget in the least: where I had all but blocked the wedding out of my memory, I always had the image of that night imprinted on my skin and the side of my mind as well.

The warmth of the coffeemaker wafted up behind me in junction with the smell of the coffee itself. I pressed my hands on either side of my face and bowed my head: stray locks of my black hair sprawled over my shoulders onto my chest. I thought of him touching my chest right then and there as more of that warm, cozy aroma washed over me.

How I wanted something to nosh on as well.

The coffeemaker made a soft little ding! and I opened my eyes and lifted my head. I gently nudged a lock of hair back over my shoulder, and I turned towards the cupboard with the mugs.

I had no idea what we had to eat on hand, but I had a feeling I would see him again once I had my coffee and went out for the day.

The Chuck whom I was married to had only just woken up by the time I had put on pants and a shirt, as well as my long black coat. I ran a brush through my hair when he skirted past me and pecked the side of my neck.

“Where are you going?” he asked me in a low voice.

“I’m gonna take a walk,” I told him as I tucked my brush away into the drawer before me. “I’m also going to get something to eat—would you like anything?”

“Mmm... maybe a muffin?”

“Yeah, I think I can do that,” I said. “What kind?”

“Surprise me.”

I peered over my shoulder and squinted my eyes at him.

“You really want me to do that?” I asked him.

“Yes, yes, yes!”

“It’s a deal then,” I proclaimed as I flashed him a wink. He treated me to another peck on the neck, and then he brought his nose to the roots of my hair. “Mmm, you smell good. Soap and coffee.”

“I try my best,” I assured him with a slight shrug of my shoulders. He gently patted the seat of my jeans, and then I bowed out of there.

I put on my sunglasses and peered up to the gray blanket across the sky. I shivered from the feeling of the cold all around me, and I wasted no time in walking to the street corner followed by the small pocket of the town not too far from the house. I passed the milkshake place for the bakery, and I could smell the fresh muffins even from the street.

I spotted that tall, wiry boy at the base of the steps with a brown paper bag in hand. His long waves seemed to flutter, even though it wasn’t very windy outside: through the gray of the marine layer, his eyes shone to me, a pair of diamonds against the cold gray from the ocean. I felt my heart skip a few beats, and more so as I ran up to him.

“Hi,” I greeted him in a low voice once I came within earshot.

“Hi,” he returned the favor with that little smile across his face. I reached out to touch his arm and he beat me to it: Chuck moved in closer to me and pressed his lips onto my own. The simple feeling of his lips on my own made my toes curl inside of my shoes. He then moved back to show off the look on his face, complete with a little lowering of his eyelids at me. He drank me down with those bright eyes, so big and bright like the sky following a storm whereby there was not a cloud one up there and everything smelled so clean and crisp.

“I feel like I haven’t seen you in a million years,” I confessed to him in a near whisper.

“Same here,” he replied with a sly little smile on his diamond-shaped face. “I have been just dying to see you, my dark vampire prince.”

“Vampire prince?” I showed him a smile in return for that.

“Yeah, you’re like a little vampire boy,” Chuck teased me, and he tucked a smooth mousy curl behind his ear with a bow of his head all the while, as if he wanted to flirt with me right on the spot. “With your little gray streak and those deep eyes of yours.”

“You wanna get something to eat?” I offered him as I, too, tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. “I mean, that is if—you haven’t eaten yet.”

“I haven’t! What’d you have in mind?” he asked me. “I’ll take whatever you want—I'm up for anything. Being Mr. Taurus and whatnot.” He gently ran his free hand down the front of his shirt: when we got together that last time, I got to touch his stomach and the skin under his waist. Oh, how I yearned to feel that soft skin again.

“I’m kind of feeling something fried at the moment,” I told him, completely oblivious to the fact that I would buy my new groom a muffin from the bakery right there next to us. “But you know, that’s just me. Mr. Libra.”

“You really are my soulmate,” he said as he moved in closer to me once again: that time, he rested his free hand upon my shoulder, and his fingers curled around the points as if he was about to give me a massage from the front. “Both of us, ruled by the stroke of Venus and the blood that has long fallen unto the earth beneath us.” He lowered his eyelids and pressed his lips onto my own once again, and that time around, I dared not curl my toes inside of my shoes. Instead, I relaxed every inch of my body, and I leaned in closer to him. He held back, and I glanced down to the paper bag in his hand.

“What you got there?” I asked him.

“Just some stuff for baking—” He opened it rather quickly so I could see the little jars inside there. “Some vanilla extract, cinnamon, nutmeg, star anise, and lemon extract. I'm making a carrot cake.”

“Ooh, that sounds good,” I noted.

“You know, given the choice, if I didn’t make music, I wanted to make food. Or be a vet and take care of cats, dogs, birds, reptiles, and horses.”

“I’d let you make me food any time,” I told him in a husky voice. “You know, we can go eat something, but you ought to come back to our place and bake your cake.”

He kept the tip of his tongue up to his two front teeth, and those bright eyes fixed onto me.

“Actually, I was thinking of making cupcakes,” he clarified.

“Carrot cupcakes?”

“The same. I hope you and your groom have a little—” He lowered his gaze to my left hand and the wedding band around my ring finger, and he sighed through his nose. “—little muffin tin or something like that in your kitchen.”

“I think we do,” I answered with a nod, “and... if it makes you feel any better—” I peered around us to ensure no one was listening, and I gestured for him to move in closer to me. “I wish I wasn’t married. I wish you and I could be together.”

“Really?”

“Really. I'm in love with you. You're a beautiful man. I feel you in my soul. You are a part of my soul.”

“It’s funny because—I feel the exact same with you, Alex,” he assured me. “The exact same way.”

I showed him my tongue. I was about to lean in for the kiss when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned my head to find Eric right there behind me, with his long jet-black hair streaming all around his head like the longest mane on the most beautiful horse known to man. Those big brown eyes seemed to shimmer in the gray haze around us, and his milky white skin had the smoothest sheen I had ever seen prior to then.

“Hey, you two—what's happening?” he started in a low enough voice for us to hear over the breeze and the noise from the street.

“It’s happening, that’s what,” I assured him with a little raise of my eyebrow and a sly smirk on my face.

“What is it?” Eric asked, nonplussed.

“I’ll tell you later,” I promised him. He then shivered, and I looked down at his body, specifically at his bare lanky arms and the blue jeans fitted to his legs. “Where’s your jacket?”

“I didn’t think it was that cold out,” he coyly said, and I shivered once the words left his lips.

“Didn’t think it was that cold out? Eric, this is San Francisco. You know what it’s like here.”

“Hey, fellas—” Eric and I turned our attention over to Chuck, who had crossed the street without our knowing, and then we strode across the street all to catch up with him. I was hungry, but I also wanted Eric to be warm. Once we reached the sidewalk on the other side of the street, I took off my jacket, and I wrapped it around Eric’s body. He stuck his arms into the sleeves, and then I turned to Chuck by the brick wall next to the sidewalk: he peeked over the top of the bricks as if he was a peeping Tom.

Eric and I lingered behind him for a second, and then I brought my attention to the bushes behind the wall. I recognized that voice from anywhere.

I turned to them, and I gestured for them to follow me along the sidewalk. I shivered from the lack of a jacket around me, but I still moved along there at a quick pace until I reached the corner up ahead. I peered around the wall there and, sure enough, I spotted the two of them over there in the courtyard together.

I crept towards the bush on the other side of the wall, and all the while, I lingered back so they wouldn’t see me.

It was a lot more difficult than I had imagined, but I knew for a fact that I could do it.

I peered behind me to find Chuck and Eric lingered behind the bush closest to me.

“Get down, get down,” I whispered to them. The two of them bowed their heads and knelt next to me there on the grass: the former nestled his body right up against my own. I resisted the urge to relax and cuddle with him, especially with Eric nestled up next to me on my right side.

The three of us spotted Chuck, the man I was supposed to be married to, on the far side of the courtyard, with Cliff, the man whom Lars had had a connection with, and yet he married Kirk out of obligation. I couldn’t see what was in Chuck’s hand but the looks on their faces told me that they were up to something together. Something that I wanted to know for myself.

I turned back to the two of them behind me, and I pointed my head back in their direction.

“Move in closer?” Eric asked me, and I nodded. I inched across the grass to the bush closest to them, and the one closest to them that didn’t warrant either of them seeing us at one point.

Chuck before us handed Cliff the thing in his hand, and it was right then I realized that it was a blindfold. Cliff knelt on the grass with his back to us, and he put the blindfold around his eyes.

“Holy shit,” the Chuck next to me whispered right into my ear.

“I know,” I whispered back to him. “He’s getting down to brass tacks with him!” I returned to the sight before us, right as Cliff took off his hat and held still.

“I think this would be better if you lay down,” Chuck told him. Without further hesitation, Cliff leaned back towards the grass, but then he hesitated for a second. Kind of hard to do that when you’re blindfolded and down on your knees anyway.

Chuck held onto his shoulders and helped ease him back onto the grass. Cliff slid his legs out from underneath him until he was rested upon the seat of his pants, and then Chuck moved him onto his back. He lay still there as Chuck reached into his back pocket for something: a long thin piece of lace, to which he tied Cliff’s hands together at the wrists and then moved them up over his head there on the grass.

“Tell me if it hurts,” Chuck told him. “And then I’ll stop.”

“Promise?” Cliff asked him.

“Promise.”

I adjusted my position there on the hard grass: if Eric was warm in my jacket, then I could be at ease for the time being. But I was still cold, however.

Chuck pressed his lips to the side of Cliff’s neck, and then he moved down to his jeans. Before he did anything, however, he shivered. If I was cold, I could only imagine how he felt right then.

“You like it cold, don’t ya, Cliff?”

Cliff muttered something to himself, but he never fully enunciated it. And I wasn’t willing to move in closer to pay better attention, either.

“If I recall correctly, you like it cold,” he said, and he unzipped Cliff’s jeans in one fell swoop. I swallowed as he tugged down his jeans and exposed his bare skin to the cold of San Francisco. I had always known that he was hung like a horse, but I had never actually seen it for myself until I did. He was gigantic, and smooth, as if there was no dildo in the world that could imitate the perfect shape should one of us jack off to him.

“Oh god,” Cliff muttered.

“Too much?” Chuck asked him.

“No, no. It's just—sudden is all. And I know that we can do it for a long time, too, Chuck.”

“That gives me an idea,” Chuck declared, and he stood up and walked on over to the bushes behind him. There was a soft rustling behind me, and I looked over my shoulder to find Eric had moved in closer behind me and the Chuck next to me. I returned to the two of them before us right as that Chuck, the Chuck whom I was married to, strode on back to Cliff with a roll of silvery tape in hand.

“Here, here—” he started as he knelt next to him and peeled off a piece of tape from the roll.

“We should do that at some point,” the Chuck right next to me whispered right into my ear.

“Shhh…” I pressed a finger to his lips. I returned once again right as Chuck put a stripe of tape over Cliff’s mouth. Bound and gagged right there on the grass, in broad daylight, and with his pants down no less. It was like watching a porno unfold right before our very eyes. There was a part of me that wanted to run on over there and snap Chuck out of it, but on the other hand, I wanted to stick my hands down my own pants for a little fondle. This was free porn, right before our very eyes.

“Relax. This won’t hurt a bit.” The Chuck before us lifted Cliff’s shirt, all the way up to his shoulders, and then he pressed strips of tape over his nipples. He arranged them into a pair of Xs on his chest all the while: x marks the spot.

“Would you like some whipped cream?” And Cliff nodded his head at him. Or at least I think he nodded at him.

“Holy shit,” Eric blurted out. The Chuck behind me and I swatted at him to keep him silent. We returned to the two of them as the Chuck out there sauntered over to the same bush again: I craned my neck for a better look there, but I couldn’t see anything. It was like he had a little cooler back there, one for all his kinky needs.

He returned with a can of whipped cream in hand, to which he shook it about and then he crouched down next to Cliff again. The point of the can itself met up with the tip of his dick, and Chuck shot a line of cream along the side, all the way down to the base and even onto the top of his thigh.

I was stunned. I could hardly believe it, and Cliff’s shuddered gasps and muffled laughter only added to it. Whipped cream on his dick, all while it was cold outside. Indeed, Cliff writhed from the feeling. From underneath the stripe of tape over his mouth, however, I could hear him laughing. Chuck grinned at him and nudged a lock of hair behind his ear even though Cliff couldn’t see him. There was something funny about it: for a split second, I pictured myself laying there before Chuck.

There, bound and gagged myself and with whipped cream on my own erect dick and down on my thighs, and he was about to lick it off me. To lick it off me and then follow it up with a little lick of skin as well. To come for him right there, outside, under the hazy gray San Francisco sunlight as the fog ventured in and out over us. And all the while, I knew for a fact that it was so easy to have people looking at us, and there was no way that I could see it for myself because I was blindfolded.

I parted my lips as Chuck held back his espresso-colored hair with one hand, and he brought his tongue to Cliff’s dick for a licking of the cream off the skin. I held still as he licked it all off as he reached the base of his dick.

He then brought his mouth to the tip.

He closed his eyes and moved his head down towards Cliff’s body for a hard sucking, and then he took his mouth off. Cliff's dick glistened in the gray sunshine, and his body shuddered and shook from the cold.

“Did you say you want some more?” Chuck asked him with a slight giggle to his voice. “Have some more.” He picked up the can of whipped cream again and left another line on the side of Cliff’s elongated dick. Another licking of the cream once more, and I was ready to fall over.

Cliff said something, and Chuck gave him a third line of whipped cream. Once he had lapped up that bit for himself, there was that little clear pearl of precum at the tip.

“Oh, don’t you dare,” Chuck coaxed him.

I felt something grip onto my knee, and I turned my attention back to the Chuck behind me right then. He had parted his lips and his bright eyes were the size of marbles.

I nodded at him, and he breathed harder as a result. I returned to them right as that Chuck ran the tip of his finger around the tip of Cliff’s dick. From a distance, I could tell that his touch was ever so light, which only made Cliff ejaculate some more of that clear liquid.

Chuck crawled up to his chest, and he very slowly peeled off the tape from his nipples.

I was ready to fall back onto the seat of my pants once Cliff arched his back and shot his load in the face of the tape being peeled off his nipples. Chuck stuck out his tongue, and that was when I heard some rustling behind me. Eric was getting out of there.

“We should go,” that Chuck behind me encouraged me.

“Yeah, we should—”

We followed Eric out of there and back to the street. I ran my fingers through my hair and let out a low whistle by what we had just seen back there.

“I’m hungry now,” I confessed to them.

“I am, too,” Chuck confessed, and he licked his lips at me.

“Not that kind of hungry,” I assured him.

“You sure, Alex?” Eric quipped right then.

“Positive.” I held still with my lips pursed together, and then I looked down at my jeans. I never realized it until we were standing there on the sidewalk together, but I had come in my pants.

“We better go into the bakery for a muffin and maybe a few little wipes,” Chuck said in a husky voice.

“Yeah, I think we should,” I declared.

[creepswrites]

MASK OF HATE | Michael x Reader

a long awaited rewrite of my favorite fanfic i've written... i've come far since my first time writing it and i'm so so happy to be able to recreate my pride and joy!! if you want to see the original, here it is! but i'm thrilled to rewrite it and i hope you all like it :)

MICHAEL MYERS X FTM!READER (he/him)

SUMMARY: The jumpsuit he wore made you think that maybe there'd been an accident with a car or something? You weren't sure. It wasn't likely he'd gotten himself out this far with a wound that bad but you couldn't really think straight to work out logistics. A man was injured and he needed help and that's all you could focus on at the moment.

WARNING: graphic depictions of violence & injuries

NEXT

The smell of wet earth enveloped you as you made your way back home. The earlier afternoon rain had let up long enough for you to walk home from work, a long day spent at the farmers market and plant nursery. It was rewarding work and one of the few jobs you'd actually wanted to be hired at. Your family had moved here a few years ago and you'd fallen in love with the town instantly. You and your father lived on the edge of town, more in the woods than the city itself, but not too far that you had to go out of your way to go to work. Even after you graduated, you still hadn't moved out. Why would you? You helped pay rent, shopped for groceries, and could tend to your garden.

It was, as far as you were concerned, the perfect location. A lovely little house surrounded by trees and bushes of flowers, overgrown with vines, and a stepping stone path that led to the front door. The house itself was covered in a dark brick with the inside a beautiful white with dark wooden floors that smelt of books and fresh fruits and vegetables. And sometimes the smell of rain leaked in when you left the windows open.

So no, you had no intention of moving.

Today was one of those days where you'd get the house to yourself. As the current chief of police, your dad was known for working late nights and leaving you to your own devices for a few days. With Halloween coming up, the police were on edge. Rumors were circling in the station that Michael had escaped again but couldn't confirm yet. They were avoiding telling the public until they were sure.

You always enjoyed walking home more than you enjoyed driving. It gave you a chance to think while enjoying music in your headphones, hopping along to the beat. You were weighing your options for dinner in your mind as you got closer to home when you felt a sense of wrongness wash over you. When your song came to an end, you lowered your headphones to hang around your neck as you scanned the nearby area with scrutiny.

The smell of iron reached you in a soft breeze that brushed your clothes and skin. Coyotes weren't unheard of but you didn't exactly have a way to defend yourself if they got any closer. Not to mention there was the chance your cat had gotten out.

You picked up the pace, grimacing when the smell grew stronger and stronger. Had your head not been on a swivel, you would have missed the way the bushes shook. You froze, swallowing hard as a man stumbled out of the treeline and onto the paved street towards you. He was tall, dressed in a dark blue jumpsuit and a white Halloween mask that rang a bell in the dark recesses of your mind. But you were too prioritized by the gunshot wound in his side that bled copiously, staining the jumpsuit in dark blotches.

"Are you okay?" You gasped, watching the man stumble for balance. He just made a grunting sound so you rushed forward to catch him by the shoulders. "Oh fuck, okay, uh, I might have a first aid kit at home. It's not far, c'mon." You said, trying not to panic. God knows how this dude was even standing with how much blood he'd already lost. But you slung his arm around your shoulders to practically drag him along. He was silent, which unsettled you slightly, but you didn't have the time to be unsettled. This man was possibly dying and that was far more important to you.

Did you need to talk to him to keep him awake? You were worried that if he did collapse on you, you wouldn't be able to move him. "How'd you even get an injury like that?" You tried, jostling him a little. The size difference was glaringly apparent like this but you did your best to move him. "You're lucky I live near here. Don't want to imagine you bleeding to death out here in the woods alone."

The jumpsuit he wore made you think that maybe there'd been an accident with a car or something? You weren't sure. It wasn't likely he'd gotten himself out this far with a wound that bad but you couldn't really think straight to work out logistics. A man was injured and he needed help and that's all you could focus on at the moment.

The walk home felt like hours but you finally pulled him up to the back door, kicked the rickety old screen door open with your foot, and practically dropped the man on the floor against the counters. No way were you carrying him up the stairs, especially not when he could track blood all over the carpet. You threw your bags aside and ran upstairs to the bathroom, hurrying past your cat Mayhem who cried in hunger. "Later." You said quietly as you began rifling through the cabinet under the sink. "I should clean this out later."

First aid kit in hand, you tore down the stairs again and came to a stop in the awning of the kitchen. The man was slumped over where you'd left him and you took the brief moment to get a better look at him. Dirty, brown work boots that were covered in grass stains and wet mud had left a small trail of dirt alongside the blood drops. The jumpsuit was mostly clean except for what looked like oil stains and the blood on his side. As you approached him, you noticed blood staining his sleeves in streaks too. Odd. You made a mental note to check his arms when you were done.

You knelt down in front of him, close enough that you could hear his frantic breathing. Like he was attempting to stay awake. "Can you tell me what happened?" You asked softly, clicking open the first aid kit and reaching for the zipper of his jumpsuit. When he flinched away, you froze. "I'll need to unzip you in order to take care of your wound."

He stared at you. Or you assumed he did. The black voids of the eyeholes left much to be desired.

"Just give me a nod." You sighed.

A moment passed but he finally nodded. A small little motion that you would've missed if you hadn't been looking. You gave him a little smile and unzipped the jumpsuit to his waist, careful to avoid brushing against the wound as much as possible. The black tank top underneath had ridden up slightly which made your cheeks warm. Stuffing that down, you helped him carefully shrug his sleeves down so you could better see the damage.

It was hard to see what had happened with how much blood covered his skin. So you reached into the kit, using one of the little sanitizing wipes on your hands before grabbing the disposable gloves. "Okay, uh, I'm not exactly a doctor so just let me know if the pain is too much, okay?" You gave him a nervous smile before hiking the tank top up more around his chest to let you wipe down the skin with a clean wet wipe.

The amount of blood was almost ridiculous. But you were eventually able to make out what was undeniably a gunshot wound. "Who the hell shot at you?" You mumbled more to yourself than to him. But he still gave you a tilt of his head as though answering. "At least the bullet went all the way through," You sighed, looking between him and your supplies as you tried to figure out what to do. "Okay. Let's… see what I can do."

You didn't know anything about gunshot wounds, much less how to clean them. But you'd helped patch your dad up when he stuck himself with a fishing hook so you figured it couldn't be that much more difficult. Anything was better than letting it get infected. "Sorry," you said softly before giving his hand a squeeze, "This is gonna suck."

And you poured the hydrogen peroxide on both ends of the wound, wincing at the pained grunt he let out. You kept apologizing as you fumbled around for the needle and thread, also dousing that in the peroxide before you tried to stitch him up. Sewing had never been a skill of yours but it was the best you could offer him. At least until you could get him to a hospital. You pressed gauze at either end of the wound before wrapping him tightly in bandages. "I think the wound is supposed to drain? I think I remember hearing stuff about that. We'll have to keep an eye on it to make sure it doesn't get infected." You tried to give him a reassuring smile and sat back to view your handiwork. It was probably sloppy, yeah, but at least it was cleaned and covered.

It could've been much worse.

"Can you pass me one of the wipes?" You asked, holding up your bloodstained hands and giving him a toothy grin. "I don't wanna stain everything with blood."

He offered you a blank stare before reaching slowly into the kit and handing you one of the little packages. You tore it open and got to scrubbing. "I'd give you a sucker for being a good patient if I had any. Would you take dinner and a shower instead?" You scooted back to clean up more, letting him stand on shaking legs. "My dad shouldn't be back till late. But he should be able to drive you to a hospital once I explain-"

At that, he shook his head violently no. "No, what?" You paused, brow furrowing. "No hospital?" He gave you a nod. "I'm not exactly a doctor. Your injury probably needs more than my below average sewing skills and half a bottle of peroxide." But still, he shook his head. "Fine. Okay. No hospital." You sighed loudly, giving him a quick once-over. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

He tried to pull away but you finally saw it: a spot on his opposite shoulder where he'd been just grazed by a bullet. More a flesh wound than anything, but you'd missed it in your stitching him up. "Alright, c'mere mister," your tone was light as you raided the kit for more gauze and bandages. "Got anything else you're hiding from me?" You gave him a playful smile as you wrapped and cleaned his wound. "It doesn't look too bad. I'm way more worried about the gunshot wound." You trailed off. "I wasn't kidding about dinner and a shower though. My dad's got clothes I bet could fit you. Though the pants may be a bit short." He gave you a calculating look as you shrugged. "At least until I get your jumpsuit washed."

The two of you just stared at each other for a while. His head tilted slowly in confusion and you couldn't help but snort. "What, you think I'll just patch you up and throw you out? Not a chance. C'mon," you took his hand and led him towards the stairs. Mayhem had ventured downstairs and began to sniff you both over, hissing at your guest despite your soft scolding.

Once inside the bathroom, you tossed the first aid kit back in as the man took a look around the small space. White tiled floors and faint, floral wallpaper framed a huge mirror, spanning the distance of the smooth countertops. You pride yourself on keeping the bathroom clean, so you only winced slightly at the dirt on the work boots that left a small trail of dirt behind. "I'll get you some clothes if you want to get undressed. I don't mind washing your clothes for you." You gave him a smile, sidestepping him to slip back out into the hall. "A shower might help you feel better. Just try to avoid getting your bandages too wet."

You left him in the bathroom and slipped down the hallway to your dad's room. A rifling through his dresser earned you some plain sweatpants and an old, black shirt you knew he wouldn't miss. Worst case scenario, your guest bled all over the shirt and you'd have to throw it out.

Heading back towards the bathroom, a realization came to you. "Hey, I'm sorry, I don't think I introduced mys-" You froze in the doorway, words dying on your lips. The man had his back to you and had shrugged the jumpsuit off the rest of the way, his boots laying near the doorway by your feet and the blue material like a puddle around his ankles. His shoulders were broad and you could make out tiny scars that littered his forearms and shoulders. His mask had remained but that wasn't what surprised you.

He didn't have underwear on.

Your face felt like it was on fire as you slammed fresh clothes down on the counter, pointedly not looking at him. "Alright, here's your clothes, bye!" It felt like your words slurred together as you slammed the door behind you, leaning against it with an embarrassed sigh.

Once you heard the water turn on, you went downstairs to clean up the kitchen floor, grateful the blood hadn't dried too much yet.

Mayhem, having decided you'd spent long enough fussing over your guest, began to complain and shout for his dinner. "Alright, you needy thing, c'mere." You scooped him up and pressed a kiss to his fuzzy head. "Let's get you fed and then see about feeding our guest, yeah?"

Mayhem meowed, as though enthused only about the coming tuna.

The man took his time showering but you didn't really mind. He certainly needed it. Plus, you could empathize there - showers always made you feel much better too. In the meantime, you'd snuck back upstairs to grab his clothes and toss them into the washing machine. When you'd gotten a good look at his clothes, you recognized the auto mechanic company logo on the jumpsuit. "L. Smith?" You'd wondered aloud, frowning to yourself. "Pretty sure I'd tutored his kids when I was a junior…" But he didn't look anything like Lawrence Smith. "Maybe it's just a common name," you had mumbled. Something about this whole situation felt off but you couldn't exactly place why.

You shook your head slightly and sighed, trying to dismiss a nagging feeling you had in the back of your mind. Sparing a glance down at Mayhem, who brushed against your leg insistently, you frowned. "You don't think this is Michael Myers, right?"

Big yellow eyes blinked up at you and you sighed, chewing on your lower lip. Not much about the Myers case was made public beyond his crimes and his mugshot. Your dad had refused to divulge anything to you about the case and you'd only managed a quick peek at crime scene photos. Nothing about the way the man had been dressed or anything like that. Besides, it had been so long since that night that any details you could have seen have been lost to time.

"Impossible." You decided with a shaking sigh as you opened the can of tuna, not even believing your own words despite their conviction. "There's simply no way."

The sound of thunder outside was a welcome distraction from your thoughts. The rain had always been peaceful to you, the smell of wet earth and the chill breeze from the window had you relaxing. You smiled, whistling for Mayhem to come get his dinner and slipped past your hungry cat into the kitchen once again.

Cutting the vegetables and boiling pasta was peaceful, a wonderfully monotonous task you could just get lost in with the soft white noise of the rain. You would have missed the sounds of the shower turning off if you'd been any more zoned out. You had just taken the tomatoes out to cut them up when you heard heavy footsteps behind you.

You glanced over your shoulder and took him in. The sweatpants had stopped just above his ankles, which you had expected. What you hadn't expected was the way his broad chest filled out the shirt, struggling to hug around his biceps. You turned back around to hide your swooning, biting your lip hard to keep yourself from smiling like a fool. He'd put the mask back on but you couldn't even bother to give it a thought.

Swallowing, you cleared your throat. "Are the bandages alright?" You asked, turning your attention back to the tomatoes. He didn't say anything but, then again, you hadn't really expected him to. "Pasta's boiling right now so dinner should be ready in a few minutes if you want to sit down." You gestured to the nearby dining room table with only a few chairs pulled up. But you didn't hear him move. The feeling of eyes on the back of your neck made you tense for a moment but you brushed it off. If he needed something, he'd let you know, right?

As you reached for a knife, his hand shot out and covered yours. You weren't even aware he'd gotten that close and you jumped in surprise. The eyeholes of the mask bore into you as you turned to look at him once again. "Do you… want to help?"

He just tilted his head, as though bewildered by your offer.

You move your hand aside to let him grab the knife, stepping to the side to give him room at the cutting board. "You just have to make them into small chunks. Try and get them around the same size, I'll get the garlic going." You hummed, your fingertips barely grazing the extra knife before he grabbed your wrist tight, jerking your hand back. A surprised yelp left you as you stared wide-eyed up at him, noticing the way he white knuckled his own knife.

Something about this was very wrong.

Swallowing back your terror, you held eye contact with him, the two of you locked in a standstill. The room was silent except for his heavy breathing, barely audible over the pounding storm outside. Soft bluish grey light cast shadows on his face, making the eyes of the mask seem like bottomless pits. Everything felt frozen in time as the two of you stared at each other.

You were the one who broke the tension, reaching over with your free hand to uncurl his fingers from your wrist as casually as you could. Anxiety pounded through you when you heard his breathing hitch. "Don't worry," you gave him a weak smile once you were freed, "I have every confidence in you." You said, giving a weak gesture to the tomatoes laying on the cutting board. You slowly moved towards the stove to set about roasting the garlic cloves, trying to appear as calm as possible while he continued to stare you down.

You only let your shoulders drop when you heard him start slicing.

Making the rest of dinner didn't take long, especially with your guest's help. He seemed unwilling to leave you alone now, hovering around you as you finished cooking and plating dinner - pasta with garlic sauce and dried tomatoes - and only retreated to the living room when you'd reassured that you were right behind him. He took a seat on the couch and you caught him staring at Mayhem comfortably sprawled out on his favorite chair.

"His name is Mayhem," you told him as you sat beside him, setting two water glasses down before digging in. "He won't bug you, he knows he's not allowed on the couch."

The man's head turned slowly to look at you, letting you get a brief sight of one of his eyes: a blue-green color that looked almost hazel in the darkness of the mask. You held in a soft gasp and turned away, trying to push the idea that the man was pretty from your mind. You hadn't even seen his face for crying out loud! Much less gotten his name.

Instead, you just clicked the television on. "Anything in particular you wanna see?" You asked around a mouthful of food. "We've got movies too but I dunno if you like horror." You hummed, setting your plate down briefly to shuffle over to the drawers in the tv stand, leafing through VHS tapes. "It's almost Halloween though," you smirked, "But, judging by your mask, you knew that."

His eyes were boring holes into you again but you just chuckled to yourself. While you pride yourself on being good at reading body language, his ramrod straight posture and silent staring was like gazing at a white canvas. But maybe that's one of the reasons you liked him so much: he wasn't complicated to understand, when he needed to be heard.

You pulled out a particular VHS and flashed it to him. "Do you like cartoons?" You asked, dangling 'It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown' for him to see.

He nodded then - so clear and obvious that you didn't waste any time popping the tape in and sitting back down alongside him. You kept your eyes glued to the screen as you ate, hoping that would be enough privacy for him to comfortably eat. He'd have to give you his name later, at the very least, but you felt the urge to give him some semblance of privacy as he ate. So you kept your eyes off him and the two of you ate in amicable silence, both your attentions rapt on the little cartoon. He ate like he was starving for it and practically chugged the glass of water when he was done, which made your heart hurt a little.

How long had this guy gone without eating or drinking anything?

"There's more in the pot if you want. Help yourself." You said softly, bumping his knee gently with yours to get his attention. He'd tensed up slightly at the contact and you momentarily scolded yourself for that. He was clearly not good with touch, but it had just felt natural to do for him.

But he didn't seem to hold it against you and just stood up, retreating into the kitchen with his plate. You watched him with a slight smile on your face. He was, no doubt, intriguing. His mysteries had you utterly fascinated and there was so much you wanted to ask. But a part of you feared the answers, paranoid your suspicions would be proven correct.

He would have killed you if that were the case, right?

The two of you continued watching movies once you'd learnt he hadn't, in fact, seen most horror films. "Well obviously I'm going to show you 'The Thing,'" you'd said as Charlie Brown came to an end. "It's one of my favorites, I think you'll like it." His staring didn't bother you anymore so you took his silence as agreement when the movie began playing. The night continued like that, the two of you watching movies together. Horror films seemed to intrigue him and you swore he jumped a little at some of the visceral body horror moments. But the two of you had cozied up just a little. He'd finally sunken back into the couch and had tolerated you scooting closer to him.

You were halfway through Frankenstein when you heard the phone ring in the kitchen. "Be right back," you whispered to him, feeling his eyes on you as you walked away. A quick glance at the clock revealed it was nearly midnight and you frowned. Your dad should've been home by now and your guest didn't seem in any hurry to go home. Didn't he have somewhere to go?

Regardless, you stepped into the kitchen on socked feet and plucked the phone off the receiver. "Hello?

"Kiddo? Oh thank god you're alright!" Your dads voice sounded monetarily relieved, letting out a sigh as he spoke. "You should've called me after you saw the news." He said, once again becoming frantic. "Lock all the doors, keep Mayhem inside tonight, and-"

"Calm down," you cut him off, "What's going on? I haven't even seen the news, I've been watching movies with-"

Your dad wasted no time cutting you off as well. "Just stay inside, okay? Keep your eyes on the news and just- just stay safe. My pistol is in my room in the bedside table if you need it."

A sinking dread began to settle in the pit of your stomach as you twirled the phone cord. "Just tell me what's going on!" You became equally frantic, running your hand through your hair in frustration.

He was silent for a moment before sighing. "Look, I'm not supposed to tell you. This is strictly police business. But the last thing I want is you digging into this yourself-"

"That was one time-!" You protested.

But he ignored you. "There's a killer on the loose." His words were like a gunshot to your chest. "We nearly caught him this afternoon but he managed to escape. We're- we're not sure where he'd gotten off to so I want you to stay inside and call me if you hear or- or see anything strange."

A lapse of silence passed and you can tell your dad was about to hang up but you quickly squeaked out. "What's his name?"

"I'm not supposed to tell you." His voice had a finality to it. He didn't plan on telling you.

You knew how to play him though. You faked a sniffle and a sob. "Dad, please, I- I need to know what I'm up against! W-what if he gets inside?"

Despite his voice being barely a whisper, it was deafening to you. "Michael Myers."

Instantly, you sobered up. Your fears were confirmed and you felt your blood run cold. Michael Myers was sitting in your living room in your dads clothes after you'd had dinner together. He'd been fascinated by Charlie Brown and had jumped a little at the chest defibrillation scene in The Thing. The Boogeyman of Haddonfield had helped you cut tomatoes and let you tend to his wounds.

You were still alive. As terrifying as this revelation was, you were curious why he hadn't killed you. You didn't know Michael Myers to be very forgiving or benevolent…

Wrapping up the call with your dad, you practically slammed the phone back into the receiver, your back still to the living room. You steadied your resolve and forced your hands to still when you turned back around. You nearly slammed into him when you did. He'd been eavesdropping and the idea that his mercifulness would end made you talk before he could move. "Seems we're locked in tonight." You managed a smile and a shrug. "Dad says it's too dangerous to go out tonight so at least it'll just be us two. If you want, I can set you up on the couch to sleep when you're ready."

He continued to stare at you and you swore he almost seemed…surprised.

You sidestepped him to head back into the living room and he let you, though he was hot on your heels. "Means you and I get more movie time though." Grinning up at him, you sat back down with a soft "oomf" and looked up at him expectantly. If you just acted like everything was fine, maybe he wouldn't kill you?

It seemed as good an idea as any.

Eventually he rejoined you on the couch after staring at you for a few good minutes.

You knew. And you had a feeling he knew that you knew. But what could you even do? It wasn't like you stood a chance against him if he decided to attack you. In fact, a part of you felt almost guilty for withholding your newfound information from him. He was literally a serial killer and you didn't want to make him think you were against him.

Which bewildered you. Why would you feel bad? You knew, logically, you should call your dad back and tell him Michael was here and let him and the rest of the force come try and catch Michael before he ran you through with a knife.

He'd extended trust to you though. You recognized that. You didn't want to betray that, especially since you didn't know who the last person he trusted could have been.

As the movie came to an end, you decided to take a risk. "Want me to make popcorn, Michael?" You kept your tone light and casual as you stood and stretched.

You didn't even get two steps in before he was up, grabbing your wrist tight and spinning you to face him. You kept your smile light and tilted your head the way he liked doing. "I think I have M&Ms if you want me to mix those in too." He continued to stare and you finally sighed. "I already knew. I, uh, had my suspicions before we made dinner. But dad called and confirmed it, basically." His grip tightened but you brushed it off. "I'm not going to tell anyone." You finally admitted.

His posture remained rigid, like he expected a fight. You felt your heart break a little. Has he ever had anyone be kind to him ever since that night? "Do you know about doctor-patient confidentiality?" His blank stare was an answer in itself. "When a doctor treats a patient, that patient has the right to keep their information private. Including their name." You placed your free hand atop his in what you hoped was a comforting gesture. "So, since you're technically my patient, I don't have to tell anyone anything." He still seemed confused and you just let out a soft sigh. "I'm not gonna rat on you, is what I'm saying."

He seemed to consider this before giving you a slow nod.

A part of you was relieved. A fair trade, you thought as you went into the kitchen to make popcorn. You patched him up and fed him and, in exchange, he didn't kill you.

The two of you wound up watching movies late into the night, with you adding soft commentary as you munched on popcorn and M&Ms. By 2AM you were fading, your head lolling to the side and bumping against Michael's shoulder in your attempts to fight off sleep. He was warm and, despite knowing who he was, you felt safe.

So you'd nodded off.

The next time you opened your eyes, you were being shaken awake by your father. "Get up," he whisper-yelled as he turned off the tv, a quick flash of the movie menu disappearing as soon as you saw it. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

You hummed, yawning and rubbing your eyes. "Early." A glance at the clock confirmed it was nearly 6AM. "Sorry, guess I was up watchin' movies." You sat up and looked around a little before your sleep-addled brain immediately recalled that Michael Myers had been sitting on your couch last night and you looked around.

As your dad herded you upstairs and past the kitchen, you noticed Michael's boots were gone. The dishes had been left atop the table but yours had been placed in the sink as though to hide the fact there had been two people here. Once of the knives from the block was missing too, but that didn't surprise you.

If your dad's weary expression was anything to go by, Michael had escaped before he'd gotten home. "'m headin' to bed," he grumbled, "You should too." He said before shuffling into his bedroom, closing the door with more force than intended. You nodded to empty air before retreating into your bedroom, noticing Mayhem lazily dozing on top of your messy bedsheets.

Your bedroom was dim and cool, the morning light just starting to shift the pitch black sky into a dark tealish blue color. Raindrops still covered the window, indicative of the storm that must be still going. You frowned and went to close your curtains to avoid being blinded by the sun once it rose but you paused just before you could yank the fabric closed.

There, across the street, only visible thanks to the streetlight he stood under, you could see Michael Myers staring up at you.

Dumbfounded, you smiled and gave him a little wave, swaying on your feet as you tried not to swoon. You wanted to believe he wouldn't hurt you, seeing as he had ample opportunity to do so and had instead laid you gently down on the couch to sleep when he'd decided to leave. But the realistic part of your brain reminded you, as you closed your blackout curtains, that it should be more concerning that you'd become a fixation of his.

You'd heard of Laurie Strode and how she was assumedly his previous fixation, seeing as he'd stalked her for a while before deciding to take action against her friends. She'd been terrified of him for years and continued to lock herself in her house for the past two years to protect herself against him. Despite her fear of him, she'd yet to move out of Haddonfield.

There wasn't any point in trying to figure her out though. She was of no help to you. You couldn't tell anyone about what was going on or risk yourself or Michael.

You were far too tired to think about any of that for now and just flopped down into bed, freezing when your hands brushed an unfamiliar texture. After scrambling around under your stomach, you held up Michael's tank top. He must have left it for you when he'd gone to change into his jumpsuit. You felt your face heat up at the implications of him leaving his shirt for you, opting instead to shove it under your pillow with your cheeks burning.

The memories of him in the tshirt filled your head as you fell back asleep.

Crunching dry, brittle leaves beneath your boots, you made your way into town for work. You always liked the walk, especially with how beautiful Haddonfield got in the fall. A gorgeous watercolor painting of oranges, browns, and reds, touches of yellow and green giving pops of color. Despite the tragedies that had happened two years ago, Halloween decorations were still up in full swing, the town determined to celebrate no matter what. There was even a small festival at the farm nearby, complete with haunted houses, hayrides, and pumpkin patches. Halloween spirit was everywhere and you loved it. It'd always been your favorite holiday, even before a certain man fell into your life.

As you approached the plant nursery you worked at, you mulled that over. The police hadn't caught Michael yet but were working round the clock. And although you hadn't seen him in person since he'd stayed over a few days ago, you'd seen glimpses of him. Enough to know he was definitely stalking you. While you should logically feel afraid, you instead felt… oddly comforted.

You stopped beating yourself up over why. You knew why. Michael Myers was the most dangerous person alive and he was looking out for you, in a way. You felt safe with him watching you. So you played the game and pretended not to see him. It was easier to play along anyways and, as far as you knew, he hadn't killed anyone since he found you. No one your dad talked about at least.

So you'd been spending more time in town or out in the woods, hoping that entertaining him would keep him from killing. At least, you hoped so.

It didn't help that you still found yourself fascinated by him.

You'd stopped beating yourself up for that too. Most people you knew were predictable, bland, or boring. They had routines and patterns that were easy to predict. But Michael wasn't like that. You never knew what he was thinking or how he'd behave. He was interesting, unique, and unpredictable.

You liked that. Maybe that was sick or twisted of you, but it was true.

"Helloooo?" Your co-worker's soft voice pulls you from your thoughts. "Did those blackberries do something to you?" Kalei snorted, nudging you gently. "You've been staring at them for, like, ten minutes now."

You responded with a yawn, rubbing your eyes. Despite having only been at work for a few hours, you were ready for it to be over. "Sorry, jus' haven't been sleepin' well." You slurred as you tried to give her a smile.

"Bad dreams?" Kalei asked, frowning slightly as she set her own blackberry plant aside. Working at the plant nursery had been your idea, more interested in working with plants than people. But Kalei was a good friend and always looked out for you. It was nice to have company while taking care of the plants.

You chewed on your fingernail and gave her a little shrug. "Just been… thinking about a guy, I guess."

They let out a shocked gasp. "A GUY?!" Kalei squealed, ignoring your desperate attempts to shush them. "Tell me everything RIGHT NOW, oh my god!" 

You blushed, trying to get them to quiet down, flustered at the idea of Michael listening in. "It's not anything serious! Just, um, met this guy and he's… interesting. I like him." You blushed at the childishness of your own words, focusing on your plants to avoid meeting Kalei's eyes.

They gave you a nod. "Well, as your workplace bestie, I am obligated to give him The Talk."

You chose to not mention the fact there were only five total employees counting you both. "Kay, it's Illinois. I doubt he'd be interested in me, available or not." Which wasn't untrue. Even if Michael was interested in you, it likely wasn't anything beyond obsession. At least the obsession went both ways, you thought to yourself with a private smile.

"Well, regardless, I have a duty to fulfill." They beamed at you, hands on their hips. "You're a cute guy and, if I didn't have a partner, I'd take you out sometime." They ignored your snort and continued. "If this guy screws you over, I'll kick his ass for you."

If only they knew, you chuckled to yourself as you left Kalei to attend to a customer. Michael wasn't exactly great "bring-home-to-the-parents" boyfriend material. Much less introduce to your co-worker. When you'd finished helping the customer, you froze at the sight of movement in the tree line across the road. Standing in the tall grass and brush, you swore you saw Michael standing there…

As far as you were aware, he stayed close by to watch as you finished your shift. You hoped that as long as he was watching you, he wasn't out killing someone. Hopefully. For all you knew, he could be supernatural.

But you'd let him watch you. The whole rest of your shift, the walk home, and as you got in the car to go shopping. While you usually got vegetables and fruits from the plants at your work, you still needed to get normal groceries at the store. So you parked around back to be a little more secluded and went inside.

It was a cute little supermarket, clean linoleum floors and shelves lined with food. You didn't need much but you definitely needed to refill your medkit and find a proper first aid book, just in case. Thankfully, it was relatively empty that day, meaning you had free reign of the aisles to explore and take your time shopping.

You knew Michael wouldn't come in the store but you didn't doubt he was waiting for you outside.

So when you finished loading your grocery bags into the trunk of your car, you didn't feel surprised when you heard footsteps approaching you. Michael was definitely taking a risk being out with you in public but you hadn't exactly spoken to him in a few days and you were itching for the chance.

Turning around, however, you were met face to face with an unfamiliar black ski mask. Definitely not Michael. The stranger grabbed you by the arm before pulling out a knife, his head on a swivel. "G-gimme all your cash! Now!" He hissed, jerking you aggressively.

"I don't have anything on me." You said calmly. Your dad had always prepared you for situations like this so you didn't worry too much, even with the glint of his knife in the corner of your eye.

"D-don't bullshit me! I know you j-just got outta there. G-gimme what you've got and I'll b-be on my way!" He spat at you, pulling you closer to press the knife against your neck.

You caught the faintest of movement in the shadows of the alleyway behind him but you kept your eyes on him to prevent the guy freaking out. "Okay. Let's just calm down," you said, keeping your movements slow as you reached for your hip, pretending to go for your wallet. The guy kept looking around frantically as though expecting something to jump out at him. Police, most likely. But when you saw the white face of a familiar mask over his shoulder, you felt a sense of calm settle over you.

"C-c'mon!" He hurried you, jerking the knife again to threaten slicing your throat.

At that moment, you jerked back as hot blood splashed across your face. Michael had effortlessly slashed the guy's neck open from behind, bright red falling like rain against the concrete below. You closed your eyes as the choked gurgles of the mugger's voice faded to silence and his body hit the ground. It was like you were frozen in place, unable to make your muscles move as you listened to the sounds of Michael killing the man. The vicious stabbing sounds made your skin crawl and you turned away from the scene entirely to check yourself over.

You hadn't gotten blood anywhere besides on your face, which was good. Easier to clean.

This was inevitable, you reminded yourself. That man wanted to hurt you and Michael was doing you a favor. Still, you tried to steady your breathing, bracing on the trunk of your car as he dragged the body away, presumably to hide it.

You heard Michael start to approach you and you let out a breath you didn't know you'd been holding. His footsteps could be silent, almost supernaturally quiet, so if he was making an effort to be loud, you knew it was his attempt to make you feel better. To let you know he was coming.

He stood in front of you now, covered in fresh blood and gripping his knife tightly. You were thankful for the setting sun that cast dark shadows over you two, obscuring the bloodsoaked Michael from view on the streets. You noticed the body slumped against the wall a little ways away and you swallowed back bile. "T-thanks." Your voice was soft and you cleared your throat. "For saving me."

It was only an assumption that he'd killed that guy to protect you. He didn't have to. He could have just let you die or at least be robbed. You were confident in that assumption though. He wouldn't risk your game ending so soon. 

On some level, he wanted you alive.

The blood on your face was beginning to dry uncomfortably and you desperately wanted to go home. You gestured to your car and gave Michael a tilt of your head. "You coming?" He seemed to weigh his options in his head before casually making his way for the passenger seat after a brief deliberation. "What's the plan if we're caught?" You asked him with a raised eyebrow and climbed into your own seat.

Turns out, once the cops got wind of the body, they were very easy to avoid. Predictable, you thought as you gripped your steering wheel tighter, careful to not draw attention to your car as you drove through the windy roads that led to your house.

You got Michael inside, shoving the grocery bags onto the kitchen counter as Mayhem came around the corner, meowing for attention and approaching Michael to give him a curious sniff.

It was then that you remembered stories your father would tell you about how Michael would kill animals for fun as a boy. How he'd leave the dead bodies of cats and birds in his locker at school to terrify the other kids. You weren't sure how truthful the stories were but you felt a heavy pit of anxiety when Michael looked down to acknowledge Mayhem.

"If you hurt Mayhem, I will turn you in." Your voice was steady despite the way you trembled. His head snapped up to look at you and you could feel the glare behind it. "I mean it. T-this is one thing I'm not bending on. He's my kitty and I won't let you hurt him."

Michael was still for a moment, letting Mayhem rub against his boots and yowl as though expecting the man to feed him. Slowly, ever so slowly, he bent over and let his fingers brush against soft black fur. The motion was gentle, like either you or the cat would lash out should he make a mistake. Mayhem loved the attention, purring and rubbing against his fingers more, which made you smile.

He was usually an anxious cat so seeing him this comfortable with Michael made you smile. You set about making up Mayhem's dinner while Michael tried to navigate petting him. He was shockingly gentle despite clearly never having pet an animal. "Did you have pets as a kid?" You asked as you scraped food into the bowl.

He didn't answer but you didn't really expect him to. His hand was still, just letting Mayhem rub all over it and meow at him. It was endearing, you thought as you set the bowl down and let Mayhem go to town on it. Michael's head tilted curiously as he watched and gently stroked his back once before standing back up.

"I think he likes you," you giggled, scritching the cat behind the ear.

Michael just watched the cat before slowly standing back up and heading back into the living room. You followed him, tugging on his sleeve gently. "Want me to wash your clothes?"

Your words trailed off when you noticed Michael was looking at a photo of you with your dad at your graduation party. A tired sigh left you when the man tilted his head. "I don't… want to talk about that." You mumbled, crossing your arms over your chest. "It's not like it's easy to plan for your own dad's murder." The words were heavy in your mouth and you forced yourself to look away from the photo.

Ever since your mom had died, you knew your dad had been different. She'd died in childbirth with you and all your dad's friends would whisper about how that changed him drastically. He'd always been distant with you, especially as you'd grown up. When you'd hear stories about him before your mom died, he sounded like an entirely different man: happy, enthusiastic about life, and excited to be a father.

But then your mom died and he retreated inward. As though the whole thing was entirely your fault. He didn't want to parent you on his own and therefore you had to grow up taking care of yourself instead. 

"Whatever you have to do," you swallowed, turning away from Michael entirely and your voice hollow, "Just make it as painless as you can."

It wasn't like there was an easy way to ask him to kill your dad painlessly. You tried not to dwell on how easy it would be to let him go. It wasn't exactly like he'd ever been there for you anyways.

"So. Your clothes. I, um, still have your shirt and the sweats you borrowed are clean, if you want to change." You changed the topic quickly, ignoring the way he stared at you. The last thing you possibly wanted was pity from the Boogeyman. "Either way, I'm going to go wash my face before someone sees me."

You went upstairs to the bathroom, leaving Michael to his own devices downstairs. You opened drawers at random until you found the wet wipes you kept stashed for when you wore makeup. Some good hard scrubbing and scented lotion and it's like you were never there, all evidence flushed down the toilet and out of sight. You sighed, staring at yourself in the mirror as the events of the day hit you, leaving you feeling winded and exhausted all at once. You were complacent in a crime now. It wasn't just you hiding Michael from the cops, you'd let him kill a man in front of you.

Trying to argue with yourself that it was self defense was pointless. No use in lying to yourself.

When you opened your eyes, unsure of when you'd closed them, you met Michael's eyes where he stood in the doorway of the bathroom. "Oh, sorry, do you want to shower?" Before you could even move to leave, he unzipped the jumpsuit, leaving you speechless.

You gasped in horror at the state of his chest. The black shirt was gone and left his bandages on display, dirty and stained with reddish-brown blood that mixed with ugly yellow pus from the drainage of the wound. It reeked of infection even a few feet from him. "Michael!" You hurried to him to get a better look, feeling sick for the second time today. "Christ, you should have come to me before it got this bad! With how wet it's been… Take these off and sit down on the edge of the tub. God, this looks awful."

Michael sat, watching you with amusement. At least you assumed it was amusement. Though you couldn't find anything funny about this. "I should have stitched you," you mumbled as you reached for your first aid kit and began sterilizing a pair of scissors, "Or at least looked up what to do."

Swallowing back your squeamishness, you cut him free of the bandages, practically retching when you got a better look at his wound. It had somehow gotten worse, a painful red and oozing pus. "Oh my god, Michael." Your voice was barely a whisper. "I'm so sorry."

He tilted his head and you almost wanted to smack him. How he wasn't in any noticeable pain was bewildering to you.

You began to undress him, uncaring of any potential nakedness, and he grabbed your wrists tight when you reached forward to take off his mask. "Michael, this infection could kill you. I need to see if you're running a fever. So either let me touch your forehead or I'm touching your neck." 

He stood quickly, stumbling slightly as he grabbed the bloodstained knife from where he'd apparently set it down on the counter. But you didn't back down. "Be mad all you want, this is really fucking infected and I'm not letting you get worse." You sighed, racking your brain to come up with an idea to placate him. "If I close my eyes, will you let me take your temperature?" 

Slowly, his shoulders fell. Which confused you. You'd seen his mugshots, you knew he wasn't disfigured or anything like that. So his insistence at not being looked at confused you but now was not the time to be worrying about that.

Prettiness aside, you needed to help him.

So you shut your eyes and held out your hand. A minute passed without Michael moving and you briefly worried he'd left the room entirely. Before you could open your eyes, you felt his fingers encircle your wrist and press it to his neck. You felt him swallow and you tried your best to focus on how hot his skin felt and not how this was an incredible show of trust. Goosebumps erupted across your arms as you cupped his neck gently.

His skin was soft and feverish and you felt your heart clench.

"You're definitely running a fever," you sighed. "I'll look for a sewing kit or something to stitch you up but I want you to shower and get all that gross off first. Don't scrub too hard, okay?" Before you could retract your hand, his grip on your wrist tightened. "Are you-?"

He lifted your hand, letting your fingers graze his bare cheek. You felt Michael lean into the touch momentarily and you reacted quickly, holding his face gently. He was burning up so hot you weren't sure how he was even standing in this condition. When was the last time anyone had taken care of him? Or the last time he was even sick?

Judging by his height, he was likely slumped against the bathroom counter. The idea made your heart clench. Despite every instinct in your body telling you to pull away, you ran your hand up the side of his face in a gentle, soothing motion. Your fingers ran through tangled hair, soft and curly, before sliding down behind his ear to rest back on his neck. "You'll be okay," you said softly. "The fever will break and you'll be back on your feet in no time."

Having had enough of being touched, he took you by the shoulders and moved you aside, careful to not let you stumble and fall. You kept your eyes closed when you heard the shower turn on and the curtain shift as he stepped inside. Only then did you open your eyes.

What... was that?

You looked down at your hand like it offended you before shaking your head in bewilderment. He'd never fail to surprise you.

You figured out pretty quickly that that instance of seeking your touch was the extent that Michael wanted you to touch him. He barely tolerated you checking him over for fever symptoms, opting instead to lounge in your bed like he'd been exorcised of a demon.

For the past few days, you'd done your best to keep Michael's presence in your house a secret. With your workaholic dad's late hours, he usually just came back home, ate a frozen dinner, and passed out in his bedroom before waking around 9AM to stumble to work and repeat the process all over again. So, provided Michael kept quiet, there wasn't any worry. You'd taken a few days of sick leave from work to take care of him, citing a head cold. Now you just had to hope that the police would continue their dedicated search even if people weren't dying.

You wondered, as you sat on your bed with a feverish serial killer half naked and asleep beside you, if hoping he recovered soon made you a bad person.

Probably.

But god he was a bitch when he was sick.

He kept the godforsaken mask on, which you had expected. But when his fever rose to 102 you had kind of hoped he'd take it off for the sake of wanting to cool down. He was persistent, you'd give him that.

You were getting the hang of his body language too. It was subtle but you'd begun to notice the slight shifts in his stance or the way his hands would twitch without a knife in them. At first you'd assumed it was just you projecting but you'd grown confident you could understand him now. Being sick definitely made him more expressive too.

Though, right now, you wanted to strangle him. "Michael, it's chicken noodle soup." You sighed, rubbing your temples. Trying to feed him was like dealing with a picky toddler sometimes. "It's chicken, noodles, carrots, and broth. All things I've fed you before." You could feel his glare at you and you were half tempted to get your own knife to speak his language better.

The infection was running its course, which was the only reason you had so much patience with him. His bitchiness was a byproduct of his fever and you had to keep reminding yourself that he probably hadn't been sick before.

That didn’t make you want to clobber him any less.

"If you eat the fucking soup I'll go buy you pumpkin pie when you feel better." You tried, glaring him down. "Because the sooner you eat this, the sooner you'll get better. And then you can go back to slaughtering the town."

He seemed placated by that. You turned your back to him so he could eat and you let out a silent sigh. You knew him well enough to know he liked that soup, he just wanted to be a jackass about it.

Later that afternoon you yet again threatened him with violence when he refused taking medicine. You weren't surprised he wasn't interested, seeing as he grew up in a hospital. But you were outgrowing your patience with him. You did smirk a little when you realized he absolutely wanted to throw you across the room for all but forcing the antibiotics down his throat. But once it was down, you softened. "C'mere, sleep will do you some good."

Michael glared at you but let you sit next to him against the headboard of the bed as he laid down. You'd learnt he was definitely a stomach sleeper and you could tell by his huffing that the heat underneath the mask was beginning to frustrate him. You jerked your head away when he ripped the mask off, throwing it with a growl and face planting onto the pillow.

"It's okay," you said softly, keeping your gaze straight ahead and fighting the urge to look down at him. "You don't feel as feverish today, you should be back on your feet in a day or two." You heard him grumble and you giggled. "Want me to rub your back? Might help you sleep."

He was silent. But he didn't immediately lash out so you kept your movements slow and purposeful. Like approaching an anxious, abused cat. He didn't know touch that wasn't associated with pain and you had to be careful to avoid startling him or overstepping. Your fingers made contact with his back and you slid your palm over his upper back, rubbing in slow, soothing motions.

Maybe it was exhaustion, the fever, or resignation to your touch but you swore you felt him relax.

Michael's skin was tacky to the touch and incredibly warm but that didn't deter you. You hummed a soft lullaby, keeping your movements slow and gentle. He looked painfully human and you were choking on the urge to care for this man. This strange, silent Boogeyman who'd fallen into your lap and sought you for care and food and attention and it made you want to cry.

If it weren't for his murderous hobby, you'd be infatuated with the sleeping man. The slow rise and fall of his chest made something in your own clench painfully as you continued to rub his back. You'd only known each other for a short time and yet you both had extended a lot of trust to each other. Most people met him with hostility or violence but you'd met him with kindness. A kindness he was unfamiliar with and must have been a welcome change. Either that or he just liked your cooking and bedside manner enough not to kill you. You weren't too picky about his motives.

You'd be lying if you said you weren't fond of him regardless.

The sound of the front door opening was like a bucket of ice down your back. You crept from the bed, carefully shutting the door behind you and heading downstairs, meeting your father's tired face. "You're back early."

"I'm only on my lunch break," he sighed as he shrugged his coat off, "Didn't feel like packing one so I figured I'd come check on you." He was giving you a strange look. "Are you okay?"

You watched him go into the kitchen as you loitered on the stairs, watching him through the awning closest to the steps. "Yeah, just been a little under the weather." You feigned a cough and sniffed. "Getting better though."

Your dad hummed as he opened the fridge. "Michael Myers killed a man at the store the other day." He reached in to pull out a sandwich you'd made for yourself at lunch and hadn't gotten around to eating. Trying to feed Michael was a laborious task.

"Really?" You raised your eyebrows, crossing your arms over your chest. "I didn't hear about it in the news."

He watched you with a painfully blank expression. "Correct me if I'm wrong but… I think you were out shopping before you fell ill, am I right?" Your dad took a slow bite of his sandwich, poorly trying to act casual. "The store clerk said a man was following you outside the store."

Fortunately, you were a better actor than your father. "I didn't see anyone."

But, of course, he didn't believe you. He never did. "Son, a man was killed by Michael Myers the day you went out and now you've been hiding away since then." His cop voice grated on your nerves. It felt like he never stopped being a cop, even with you. Every conversation with him felt like navigating a maze to try and hide yourself from him. You hated it.

"The weather has been getting colder and I work outside. It's really not that surprising."

"Have you seen Myers?" He got sick of beating around the bush, his hands on his hips as he leveled you with an unimpressed look. "Is that why you've been hiding out here?"

The word "hiding" made your hackles raise. Like this wasn't the same man who'd told you to lock the doors and windows when he first informed you of Michael. "Nope." Your smile was fake and bitter and you could see the way he flinched. "Hard to miss a man walking around in a Halloween costume." 

"Kid-" He tried to placate you.

But you weren't interested. "I'll be back to work in a day or so, don't worry."

He seemed remorseful now. "If Myers is stalking you, you can talk to me. You know that, right?"

An awkward silence hung in the air. Your dad seemed to deflate and he ate in silence, pretending to not see you. "Have you talked to Laurie Strode yet?" You asked as you picked at a stray string on your sweater sleeve.

He swallowed and shook his head. "We're hesitant to let her know what's going on until we're certain he's still after her. Dr Loomis has been working with us to try and find him as soon as we can." He scratched his chin in thought. "Maybe I should make a statement soon, what with Halloween approaching."

You gave him another acidic smile. "You'll find him, I'm sure. You're very dedicated."

Your dad gave you a helpless look. If you were five years younger, you might have apologized for being so curt with him. But you weren't sixteen and craving your father's approval anymore. You knew that the family charade you both put up was only because you helped around the house. He wasn't home enough to give a shit who lived there anyways.

He didn't even know the killer he was hunting was asleep in your bed, stitched up with your string and your soup in his stomach. You had no intention of telling him, partially out of spite at this point.

You hoped Michael got better soon.

Lucky for you - and unlucky for Haddonfield - Michael was back on his feet a day later. He was still a bit warm but you knew it was fruitless to try and keep him inside any longer. He had to make another appearance in town anyways or else he'd risk you both. If people paid too close to timelines, your sick leave corresponding with his disappearance would be too suspicious.

But his stitches came out easily and his wound had healed decently. "Next time, come back before your bandages get too dirty." You'd smirked at him as you zipped his jumpsuit up. It felt too close to a wife sending her husband off to work for the day and the thought made your face warm.

You managed to get a few days of relative peace, especially once your father was occupied by Michael killing again. It had also been a few days since you saw Michael and you hoped that was just because his bandages were holding up well. The last thing either of you needed was another sick week.

Currently you were heading home after spending the afternoon reading at the park. Your little bag bumped against your hip as you hopped along to the music coming out of your tinny headphones. It was unlikely Michael had been watching you, since you didn't feel his eyes on you, but you still felt like taking a break from the house for a minute.

The sight of a cop car parked haphazardly along the sidewalk made you freeze. It had hit the curb slightly and looked like the driver had been in a hurry to get out. The door was wide open and you lowered your headphones slowly, the frantic voice over the radio better. The voice was staticy and it sounded like whoever it was was running but their words were crystal clear. "All units respond. Multiple fatalities reported on Orange Grove Ave. Suspect has been identified as one Michael Myers. He is armed and extremely dangerous. Shoot to kill, I repeat, shoot to kill. Over."

You felt your stomach drop and your head whipped around. Orange Grove Ave was just ahead so you took off like a shotgun, sprinting down the street. The only sound was that of your shoes hitting the pavement as you tried to come up with a plan. If they hadn't seen him yet, you just needed to get an opening for him to escape. You knew of Michael's unnatural ability to vanish if your eyes weren't on him.

Desperately, you didn't want him to get shot again.

You rounded the corner onto Orange Grove with a sharp turn, your eyes immediately spotting a second cop car. "Fuck!" You hissed to yourself as you picked up the pace. You should have gone looking for Michael sooner. Should have left for the park earlier in hopes of catching his attention. Anything, anything to have avoided him getting caught.

When you got closer to the car, you noticed a cop hanging halfway out of the car. His head had been smashed in, a puddle of gore, blood, and brain matter leaking steadily down the side of the car door. You felt like throwing up but you held it in when you spotted his partner. A young man, likely fresh on the force, clutching his gun as he pointed it down the alleyway. His trembling told you all you needed to know.

The officer gave you a quick glance, fear obvious on his face. "Get back!" He called to you.

You ignored him and looked down the alleyway. Michael stood there calmly, hanging back in the shadows between the two buildings. Another cop lay before him and you watched with horror as Michael's boot made heavy contact with the cop's skull, a wet, sickening crunch echoing out in the small space.

"Get down and put your hands in the air!" The rookie said, hands on the gun shaking as he kept his eyes on Michael. An idea came to you. It was stupid, reckless, and dangerous.

You lunged for the cop, knocking his gun from his hands and sending him stumbling.

He didn't even have time to do anything but look at you with horrified eyes before Michael descended on him. He grabbed the rookie by his collar and lifted him effortlessly before running him through with his knife, spilling his guts on the sidewalk in warm waterfalls of blood. You scrambled backwards to avoid being caught in the spray but Michael gladly covered himself in the fresh gore. The rookie's lifeless body hit the floor with a heavy, empty sound and Michael turned his attention on you.

You scanned the nearby area and spotted a little path between two houses overrun with grass and brush. Without a second thought, you took off towards it and just hoped Michael was behind you. Other members of the force would be on their way and you both needed to disappear. You ignored the scratching of sharp branches against your arms and hands, only wincing when a particularly sharp one sliced a thin cut across your calf.

But you didn't falter. You kept running through the town, your heart pounding hard and pumping pure fumes through you as you ran. As soon as you broke into the treeline of the forest, you collapsed to your knees and let yourself catch your breath.

A hand gripped the back of your shirt and for a brief second you feared you'd been caught. But Michael dragged you towards a tree, pinning you to it and holding his bloody knife close under your throat, the blade digging into your skin. "Wait!" You struggled against his grip, kicking out at him with your heavy boots. "What did I do?! I got you out of there without getting shot!"

You could see his eyes this close. Hazel, like you'd suspected. His eyes were narrow with hate and anger as he glared you down. But you stopped struggling and that only seemed to make him madder. "I wasn't just going to let you get hurt!" You hissed, reaching up to grab the hand that held your collar tightly, keeping you rooted in place. "I don't see what you're so angry about."

He didn't like that answer. The knife pressed in and you gasped when you felt a stream of your own blood run down, wetting his fingers. "Stop," you pleaded, clawing at him frantically. "Stop, please, I'm sorry."

That wasn't good enough for him and held you tighter. Tears welled up in your eyes and fell, mixing with the blood. Pain shot through you when Michael yanked his knife away, taking a few steps back and letting you slide down the tree as you gasped for breath. Your hands gripped at your neck, slightly relieved it wasn't more than a surface cut. Blood started to stain your hands, falling in rivulets down your arm and leaking over your elbows only to stain the grass beneath you a muddy red color.

His head tilted as he watched and you wanted to spit at him. "Y'know, I kinda thought we had a partnership going on." Your words were choked as you glared up at him. "Was I wrong?"

That seemed to get to him. He straightened up and stared you down. You got up on shaking legs and stumbled away from him and towards the forest. His footsteps were loud as he followed behind you and that only served to make you angrier. The walk home was silent and he stayed a few feet behind you the whole time, never getting closer nor straying. The only sounds were the twigs crackling under your shoes and you were too rattled to feel or think much of anything. Your only goal was getting home.

You kicked the back door open and stormed inside and upstairs to the bathroom. You stared at yourself in the mirror and wanted to smack yourself for your infatuation with a killer who didn't care about you. The cut was, thankfully, small. And hopefully the amount on your arms could convince your dad you were just handling a blackberry bush at work or something. The one on your leg could be hidden under pants until it healed. So you began rooting around for bandages and ignored Michael standing in the doorway.

"I help you get away and you try to kill me?" You growled, glaring at him in the mirror. "I could have let that cop shoot you and I didn't because I fucking care, Michael." Tears threatened to fall again and you swallowed them back when he gave you a tilt of his head. "I get you aren't good with feelings and- and maybe this is just you needing me to clean and feed you but I wanted to help you." You dabbled your neck with a cotton ball soaked in hydrogen peroxide and hissed at the sting. "If that's all you want me for then fine but I need to know where we stand."

He watched you bandage your neck, his shoulders set tight as he waited for you to finish. He set the knife down on the counter and reached for you but you flinched back. "Wash your hands." You mumbled and stepped back more to give him access to the sink.

The water ran for some time as the two of you watched the blood swirl down the drain and out of sight. Once the water ran clear, he pulled his hands out and reached for you again. You wanted to run but were backed up into a corner with no way out.

He covered your eyes with one and you frowned in confusion. "What are you-?" He took your wrist with his free hand and held it to his face again, silencing you. His face felt wet and that concerned you. "Are you bleeding somewhere?" You tried feeling around for any cuts but he shook his head no. "Was it raining?" Another no.

So an idea came to you. A dangerous one if you were wrong. "Were you… crying?"

He nodded. Your heart broke.

You pulled him in for a hug, keeping your eyes closed as you just held him. He dropped the hand from your eyes to hold your hip, leaning into your touch like he did when he was ill a few weeks ago. "What happened?" You tried, holding his face with both hands.

Michael just shook his head helplessly and bumped your foreheads together. Oh. Oh. "Were you… worried I was turning you in?" No. "Was it because I was there while you were, uh, hunting?" No. You chewed on your lip as another dangerous thought came to you. "You were worried I was going to get hurt."

His jaw clenched as his throat worked around a growl. The Boogeyman of Haddonfield couldn't afford to feel anything. He doesn't. As far as anyone is concerned at least. Yet here you were, defying all odds and earning Michael's favor. His protection. His care. And the idea of losing you had terrified him, causing him to lash out at you for willingly putting yourself in danger. Emotions had run high and he'd acted out. He hadn't known what else to do but scare you back. 

"I'm sorry I worried you," you said softly, stroking your thumbs over his cheeks and wiping the moisture away as you kept your eyes closed. "I was worried about you too. I heard the police radio mention shooting you on sight so I went looking for you." His grip on you tightened slightly and you sighed. "I know that you're used to people shooting at you or- or attacking you. But I'm not used to hearing about it."

You finally admitted to yourself and him: "I don't want you to die."

After a moment of silence, he pressed your foreheads together. You felt his breath ghost over your skin and your noses bumped together awkwardly. You hooked a hand behind his neck to just hold him and he squeezed your hips tight. "I don't want you to die," you gasped into your shared air. He made a muffled sound and this felt so much more intimate than any kind of kissing you'd done in the past. You just stood there in each other's spaces, sharing air and warmth and closeness that you hadn't had with someone else in a long time. You couldn't imagine how it felt for him.

"We're in this together now, okay?" You said softly, your eyes fluttering open to meet his. Pretty, you thought absently. But you already knew that. Brown ringlet curls, one eye injured from his fight with Laurie Strode, and a light dusting of freckles across his nose. His face looked damp and you brushed under his eyes with the hem of your sleeve. Despite that, his face was expressionless even though you could see conflict swirling in his eyes. You couldn't imagine how he was feeling. "We'll look out for each other, yeah?"

He gave you a slow nod and you smiled. Your foreheads pressed together again and you felt his shoulders relax as his eyes closed. Trust. You both trusted each other and were partners in this now. You accepted you'd be complacent in his crimes going forward and he'd learn to accept your care in time.

Just you and your Boogeyman against the world...

[novaursa]

Chains of Flame

- Summary: Aegon conquers the North, breaks your betrothal to Torrhen, and takes you as his third wife.

- Paring: sister!reader/Aegon I Targaryen (one-sided)

- Note: These events happen right before The Broken Crown. @oxymakestheworldgoround I hope you like it. 🙂

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @fiction-fanfic-reader @fireandblood-mharmie @poisonedsultana

The Northmen stand silent, their breath hanging in the cold air as Aegon Targaryen, now styled the Conqueror, steps forward. You watch from a raised platform, your heart hammering as you take in the sight below. Torrhen Stark, King in the North, stands proud and unyielding before the might of the dragonlord. His eyes flicker briefly to you, a look filled with sorrow and a hint of betrayal.

Aegon's voice booms over the gathered men, a stark contrast to the cold stillness of the North. "I accept your submission, Torrhen Stark. You are no longer King in the North, but Warden, sworn to me and mine."

Torrhen nods stiffly, his face a mask of stoic calm. He removes the crown himself, placing it at Aegon's feet. It is a small thing in that moment, the act of surrender, but it feels like a shifting of the world. You feel the weight of it like a stone in your chest.

Aegon gestures, and you see the great crown of the North picked up by Orys Baratheon’s hand. The sight of it, soon to be discarded, makes something in you clench.

But then Aegon speaks again, and you know this is not over. “There is another matter, Torrhen Stark, that we must settle.” His voice is iron, unyielding. “The betrothal arranged by your father—between my sister and you—is no more.”

A murmur spreads through the assembled lords and bannermen. Your breath catches in your throat, though you had known this moment was coming. The promise made to you, to the North, is shattered in an instant, and the sting of betrayal mingles with relief and fear.

Torrhen’s face pales, his jaw tightening. For the first time, his composure wavers. He glances at you again, and you see the raw pain in his eyes. He does not speak, but you can feel the weight of his silent agony. His mouth opens, then closes, as if words would betray the storm raging within him.

Aegon turns to the gathered Northmen, his presence commanding, his tone brooking no dissent. “I will take Y/N as my third wife, joining her to me as a true queen of Westeros. This is the will of the Conqueror. No man will challenge it.”

The crowd erupts, voices rising in surprise and dismay. The North had seen you as their own, a bridge between the frozen lands and the fiery South. And now, you are being taken from them, claimed by the dragon.

You feel Torrhen’s gaze on you, and you force yourself to meet it. His pain is a spear to your heart, for you had cared for him, in your way. He was to be your husband, your future, a man who respected and honored you. But it was not love, not in the way Aegon’s presence invades your thoughts, dominates your heart despite your resentment.

“I will come to Winterfell,” Aegon continues, his voice softer now, though no less commanding. “To claim her, as is my right. But I will grant you, Torrhen Stark, time to bid her farewell.” His eyes flick to you, and for a moment, the steel in his gaze softens. “I understand my sister holds you in high regard.”

You want to lash out, to rage at the unfairness of it all. He took your future and made it his own. Aegon’s jealousy, his possessiveness, had bound you to him in chains of blood and fire, and now he stands here, triumphant, while the North mourns the loss of its promised queen.

Torrhen bows his head, the weight of his defeat pressing down on his shoulders. “I thank you for your mercy, my lord,” he says, the words clipped and tight. He does not look at you again, and the distance between you feels like an insurmountable chasm.

The ceremony ends, and Aegon turns to you, his hand reaching out. The crowd parts as you descend, every step heavy, the eyes of the North upon you. When you take Aegon’s hand, his grip is firm, possessive, and something in you breaks.

“I will not forget this, brother,” you whisper harshly as he leads you away, your voice low so only he can hear. “You have taken everything from me.”

He stops, his eyes searching yours, and for a moment, you think you see regret. But then it is gone, replaced by the unwavering determination that has always defined him. “I would take the world for you,” he murmurs, his voice fierce. “And I will make you my queen, as I've promised you.”

You look back once, meeting Torrhen’s eyes across the sea of people. His face is unreadable, a mask of Northern stoicism, but the pain is there, deep and unyielding. You look away, because to hold his gaze any longer would be to shatter entirely.

As you leave, Aegon’s hand never leaving yours, you feel the chains tighten. You are his, now and forever, bound by fire and blood. And the North, once a promise of freedom and peace, is left behind, as cold and distant as a fading dream.

The shores of Dragonstone are shrouded in mist, the air filled with the scent of salt and smoke. The winds whip at the edges of your gown as you stand on the blackened sands, gazing out at the restless waves. The preparations for your wedding are underway, but you feel none of the joy such an occasion should bring. The weight of your destiny, twisted and reshaped by your brother's ambition, presses down on your shoulders like a leaden cloak.

Behind you, the great castle of Dragonstone looms, its towers sharp and jagged like dragon’s teeth. Within its ancient halls, the fires have been stoked, and the feast is being prepared. But all you feel is cold, an icy knot of anger and betrayal festering in your chest.

The sound of footsteps crunching on the sand draws your attention. You turn to see Aegon approaching, his silver hair gleaming in the faint light. He is resplendent in his Valyrian armor, the black and red of House Targaryen vivid against the stark landscape. His expression is set, determined, but you can see the flicker of something deeper in his eyes—something that looks almost like hesitation.

“You are avoiding the ceremony,” he says, his voice low, though there is a hint of frustration beneath the calm. “Our guests are waiting. Visenya and Rhaenys, our bannermen, they are all gathered for us.”

Your lip curls in a bitter smile. “For us? Or for you, brother? This is what you wanted, not I.”

Aegon’s jaw tightens, his gaze narrowing. “This is what you have always desired, to be queen. You spoke of it often as a child, remember? That you would rule by my side, united in fire and blood.”

“That was a game,” you snap, the words sharp and hot as dragonfire. “We were children, Aegon! Do you truly believe the dreams of a girl mean I must forfeit my future?”

He steps closer, the heat of him almost tangible, and for a moment, you can see the hurt flickering beneath his anger. “It was not a game to me,” he says, his voice firm. “When you spoke of ruling together, I saw it as a vow. I saw it as a promise that you would be with me, that we would shape the world together.”

You scoff, turning away, your eyes searching the endless horizon as if it could offer some escape. “A promise you forced me into. You shattered my betrothal, Aegon. You took everything I might have had—the North, my own choices—because you couldn’t bear to let me go.”

Aegon’s hand catches your arm, gently but insistently, turning you to face him. His eyes are fierce, blazing with that intensity that has always defined him. “I took what was mine,” he says, and there is a ring of possessiveness in his tone that makes your heart clench. “You were never meant for him, for anyone but me.”

“And what if I say I do not want this?” you demand, pulling your arm free. “What if I do not wish to be your queen, to be bound to you like some trophy to show your might?”

His gaze softens, and for a moment, he looks almost vulnerable. “You may hate me now, sister,” he murmurs, his voice low and strained. “But I know you. I know the fire in you, the hunger for more. It was not a game, not truly. I have seen the way you look at the world, the way you yearn for something greater. I have conquered Westeros, yes, but I did it for us, for the promise we made.”

“A promise I was too young to understand!” you retort, frustration boiling over. “You saw what you wanted and took it. You never asked what I wanted, Aegon. You never thought that I might have wished for something different.”

He shakes his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “I have always known what you wanted, even when you did not. You would have been wasted in the North, trapped in Winterfell with a husband who could never truly know the depths of your fire.”

Your hands clench at your sides, anger and confusion warring within you. “And now I am trapped here, with you. Trapped in a cage of gold and dragonfire.”

Aegon’s eyes darken, and he steps closer, his presence overwhelming, the heat of him almost suffocating. “Not trapped, beloved,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “You are not trapped. You are my queen, my equal. This is what I offer you—the world, to rule by my side. Everything we dreamed of, everything we spoke of, it is ours now.”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you are caught between the pull of his words and the bitterness in your heart. You had dreamed of this, once, when you were too young to understand the price. But the reality is a bitter draught, and the man before you, the brother who has taken so much, feels more like a stranger than ever.

“I wanted freedom,” you whisper, the words breaking from you like a confession. “I wanted a life of my own choosing, not one bound by your will.”

Aegon’s face softens, and he reaches out, his hand hovering near your cheek, hesitant, as if he fears you will pull away. “And I wanted you, more than the crown, more than any throne. I have always wanted you.”

His words hang between you, heavy and fraught, and for a moment, the world narrows to the space between your breaths. You feel the weight of his longing, the possessive need that has driven him to bind you to him, and it terrifies you, even as some small, traitorous part of you is drawn to it.

But you do not yield. You cannot. “You have me now, brother,” you say softly, a bitter edge to your voice. “But do not think it is by choice.”

He flinches, the hurt plain on his face, but he does not look away. “I will make you see, in time,” he says, his voice almost a vow. “I will make you see that this is where you belong.”

And with that, he turns away, striding back toward the castle, leaving you alone on the shore. The wind howls around you, the waves crashing against the rocks, and you stand there, feeling the world shifting around you like sand beneath your feet.

Today you will be wed, bound in the ancient rites of your people, the words of Valyria sealing your fate. And though you feel the fire of your anger burning bright, you know that you are caught, trapped in a web of fate and desire, with no clear way to break free.

The dragon has claimed you, and whether you will burn or rise remains to be seen.

The halls of Dragonstone are alive with the glow of a hundred torches. The air is heavy with the scent of incense and dragonfire, a mix of smoke and the salt of the sea beyond. 

You stand in the center of the great hall, clad in the traditional robes of Valyria. The fabric is exquisite, a deep crimson embroidered with threads of gold and black that catch the light as you move. It clings to your form like liquid fire, and the weight of it feels both regal and suffocating. Your hair, usually left to flow freely, has been intricately braided and adorned with tiny dragon-shaped clasps of silver and rubies, each one a symbol of your house, your heritage, and the heavy legacy you now bear.

The hall is filled with guests, lords and ladies from the corners of Westeros, all here to witness this union, this cementing of power. The faces of those you know—Rhaenys, with her quiet strength, and Visenya, stern and watchful—are a comfort, but only barely. They stand on either side of you, dressed in their own gowns of silver and midnight blue, their presence a stark reminder of what you are about to become. Beyond them, the lords of the realm watch with a mixture of awe and apprehension, their whispers a dull hum in the background of your thoughts.

At the far end of the hall, Aegon waits. He is a vision in black and red, his armor gleaming under the firelight, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen emblazoned proudly on his chest. His silver-gold hair falls loosely to his shoulders, and his eyes—those eyes that have seen the world bend and break under his will—are fixed on you with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

The words of the High Valyrian rites begin, spoken by a priestess who stands between you and Aegon, her voice echoing in the vast chamber. The ancient tongue flows like music, each syllable carrying the weight of history, of old gods and lost empires. The ceremony is one few in Westeros truly understand, its meaning lost to all but those of your blood.

You are asked to recite the vows, and though your voice is steady, you can feel your heart racing, a frantic, caged thing within your chest. You speak the words, pledging your loyalty, your soul, your very being to the man before you. Each phrase is a chain, each promise a shackle that binds you ever closer to him.

Tears sting at your eyes, but you blink them away, your vision blurring for a moment. You will not weep, not here, not before all these people. But the weight of what is happening crashes over you in waves, each one more suffocating than the last. You feel Rhaenys’s gaze on you, warm and understanding, but even she cannot help you now. This is your fate, your destiny, carved by your own brother.

Aegon steps forward, his gaze never leaving yours. His face is inscrutable, the mask of the conqueror, but there is something beneath it, something raw and almost hesitant. He takes your hands in his, his grip firm but not harsh, his skin warm against your cold fingers.

The priestess continues, her voice rising and falling like the tide, calling upon the old gods of Valyria to witness this union, to bless it with the strength of the dragon, the fury of fire. You repeat the vows again, your voice faltering only once, when the tears finally spill over, silent and unbidden.

Aegon’s eyes flicker, a brief, almost imperceptible softening as he watches the tears trail down your cheeks. For a heartbeat, he hesitates, his gaze searching yours, and you see it—a flash of uncertainty, of something almost like regret. But it is gone as quickly as it appeared, his grip on your hands tightening as if to anchor you both.

The priestess holds up a ceremonial blade, its edge gleaming wickedly in the firelight. You know what comes next. Aegon takes the blade first, drawing it carefully across his palm. Blood wells up, crimson and stark against his pale skin. He holds his hand out to you, his eyes locked with yours, unyielding and yet—there is a plea there, a silent question.

You take the blade, your hand trembling slightly. The metal is cold and sharp, and when you draw it across your palm, the pain is swift, a sharp sting that blooms into a dull throb. You press your bleeding hand to his, the warmth of his blood mingling with yours, a bond sealed in the oldest way.

“Fire and blood, my love,” he murmurs, his voice low, meant only for you. 

The words are a promise, a claim, and you feel their weight settle over you like a mantle. The tears fall faster now, but you do not look away, even as your vision blurs. You hold his gaze, refusing to flinch, to break, even as your heart shatters within you.

And then it is time for the final vow, the kiss that will seal your fates. Aegon hesitates, just for a heartbeat, his eyes searching yours as if seeking permission, understanding. The hesitation is gone as quickly as it appeared, and he leans in, his lips brushing yours with a gentleness that surprises you.

The kiss is soft, almost chaste, but there is a fire beneath it, a heat that speaks of all the things left unspoken between you. It lasts only a moment, a fleeting touch, and then he pulls back, his eyes dark and unreadable.

The hall erupts in cheers, the sound crashing over you like a tidal wave. You feel the weight of the moment, the finality of it, and it is all you can do to stand, to keep the tears from becoming sobs. You are his now, bound in the ancient rites, the queen to his king, the flame to his fire.

Aegon raises your joined hands, his gaze still locked on yours. There is triumph in his eyes, but there is something else, too—something softer, more fragile, hidden beneath the conqueror’s mask.

The feast that follows is a blur of sound and color, of toasts and laughter that seem hollow in your ears. Aegon’s hand remains on yours throughout, his presence a constant, inescapable force beside you. You smile when expected, nod when spoken to, but inside, you are adrift, lost in the sea of your own thoughts, your own grief.

As the night wears on, the guests begin to fade away, the torches burning low. Aegon turns to you, his expression still unreadable, his hand warm on your arm.

“Are you well?” he asks, his voice quiet, meant only for you.

You look up at him, and for the first time since the ceremony began, you allow yourself to speak the truth. “No,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “No, I am not.”

For a moment, just a moment, you see something in his eyes—a shadow of the boy he once was, the brother you knew before all this. But then it is gone, and he nods, his expression hardening once more.

“I will make it right,” he says, and you can hear the determination in his voice, the fierce resolve that has driven him to conquer, to claim. “I will make you see.”

But you turn away, pulling your hand from his grasp, your heart heavy with the weight of all that has been lost, all that will never be. You do not look back as you leave the hall, the cheers and laughter fading behind you, your tears falling silently in the darkness.

Tonight, you are queen. But you are also alone, your heart a battlefield, your soul caught between fire and blood, love and resentment. And the man you once called brother, the boy who once made you laugh, is now the king who has taken everything.

[greensagephase]

Nonviolent Communication - Part 16

Pairing: Spider-Man!Miguel O'Hara x Spider-Woman!Reader Summary: Miguel and you make visits to the cemetery to talk to your loved ones. Miguel joins the spider gang for a training simulation so you can continue to rest after being sick. You go grocery shopping with him and then cook together! You debate gifting Miguel something for Father's Day. Word Count: 17.5k Warning: some depressing content; minor injury; blood; Miguel cries A/N: Edited this once, so I'm praying it's good since a lot was done at 4am today 🫠 Masterlist Music Inspo (Spotify playlist for the fanfic here) "Evergreen" - Richy Mitch & The Coal Miners "Home" - Good Neighbours (tyy Laura!!❤️)

Thank you for reading!!

Part 16

You lay fresh flowers on Peter’s resting place. You’ve collected the old ones and placed them with the other ones from your other loved ones’ graves. You always leave Peter’s for last, so you can stay with him the longest. It’s always been like this since he passed away.

A gentle breeze blows on your face as you stare at the gravestone. It’s almost another year since his death, the fifth one.

You sigh and fix the flowers, arranging them in a way that looks pretty. You always take your time with this on every grave, wanting to show love and care to your deceased loved ones even years after their deaths.

You finish fixing the flowers, admiring how colorful and fresh they are. You always opt for bright ones to lighten up Peter’s grave. You like to think that he’s here somewhere, sitting on the ground or leaning against the nearest tree, or even sitting on his own stone listening to you talk about your day. It used to help you in the early days after losing him. Now, it comforts you in a different way. Your heart aches but differently. You’ve healed, even though you once believed you wouldn’t.

You pull back. Usually, you tell Peter everything that happened during the week from the villains you’ve fought to the little moments of your day like simply having a coffee. He always loved that, hearing about your day. You intend to share all of that with him, but there’s something that’s been weighting on your mind especially, and heavily.

Harry.

He left your life in a blink of an eye, and came back just like that.

Nearly five years later, he makes an appearance, asking to reenter your life. You’ve had little time to think about his request with you growing sick the next morning and then having your period. Thankfully, you feel much better today. Your cold is mostly gone and your period’s symptoms have calmed down thanks to the medication that Miguel got you. Your body is still feeling some of the effects, like fatigue, but for the most part, you feel well. Your recovery has been a fast one and you have no doubt in your mind it’s all due to Miguel, who was like your nurse on duty, making rounds every thirty minutes and ensuring you took the medicine as it was prescribed. And then, there’s all the food he cooked and the other kind gestures, like giving you his blanket and sweatshirt, and the ointment on your nose and back.

You chuckle to yourself at the thought and decide to start your weekly moment with Peter at last, even after all these years. You tell him everything from running into Harry to getting sick and how Miguel looked after you to a brief summary of Miguel’s feelings regarding the situation with Harry.

He didn’t say it directly but you have a feeling that he’s not happy with Harry and honestly, even your other friends seemed… on edge about the situation.

His words, along with your friends’ behavior, have made you consider this situation, especially Miguel’s words. He made you realized Harry really did ghost you in a moment when you could’ve used someone’s comfort. Miguel also made you see that maybe, you did deserve a little better, even if you know that you were fully going to try and cut ties with Harry.

Now, you wonder if you would’ve done it had Harry not stepped away for whatever reason he did. Would you had allowed him to stay in your life had he stuck around? You know it’s unproductive to think about this now, so many years later but still.

A part of you is displeased that you have to worry about this now. You had simply accepted that your friendship had ended with Harry. He had his reasons and you had yours, so it felt like a silent mutual decision between you, but now? Harry is back and he wants to be part of your life again.

The question is now whether you let him, or not.

“What do I do, Peter?” you whisper. “I think - I was perfectly okay with the way things were left. Is that bad?” you ask. “I know I have no one in this universe.” Your head dips low once you say this. You truly have no one in this universe. Just you and yourself alone since Peter passed away. Staring at his gravestone, you swallow heavily.

“But I was okay with that for many years. I accepted it because I know I made that choice, to cut ties with everyone. I’ve told you what Miguel said - that I deserved better from our friends - and maybe I did, but it’s too late to think about that now. I accepted it years ago. Just like how I accepted what happened with Harry. We both walked away from each other, so it really felt like a mutual thing, you know? But now… He wants back and I don’t know if… I don’t know if I want him back. Is that a bad thing?” you whisper. “I just don’t know.” You sigh. “I don’t think my friends like the fact that he’s suddenly shown up. You should’ve seen them.” You smile softly, thinking of them. Your little family.

“You would’ve loved them, Peter. I’ve told you that already but I really do believe so. They’re amazing… They took me in and now they’re my family.”

You remain motionless and quiet for several minutes, thinking about the situation. The first thing is, maybe you did deserve better like Miguel said. Do you want that kind of person back in your life? What if Harry just walks out again?

There’s also the fact that you’re Spider-Woman. Having someone back into your life, someone who doesn’t know of your secret, will definitely stir things in your life. You’re not used to that anymore. Like, hiding your suit away in your bedroom, hidden in the closet. You don’t have to explain where little bruises come from, or why you were a bit late to something.

You can get used to that again, you suppose, but you won’t deny that hiding your identity can be exhausting and there’s always the risk of being connected to Spider-Woman. It was always a worry of yours with your parents, Aunt May, and Peter - to have them exposed to villains who made the connection.

You shake your head.

You can’t decide now. Maybe it’s too soon. It’s only been a few days since you met with him. Perhaps you ought to think about it more, give it a few more days.

“I need more time, Peter. I’ll think about it more,” you whisper softly with a sigh. You silently imagine Peter agreeing with your decision for now but your imagination is interrupted by your spider senses.

You glance around quickly, taking in your surroundings. You’ve been so lost with your thoughts you haven’t been paying attention to anything around you. Your eyes find the reason for the warning.

“Harry is coming,” you say, turning to face the grave. “I must go, Peter. I love you,” you whisper, quickly pressing your hand to the gravestone, your physical way of saying bye. “I’ll be back soon. I promise.”

You pick up your things and slip away, hiding behind a tree before Harry can catch sight of you. You watch from a distance as Harry approaches Peter’s grave, flowers in his hand.

You frown as you watch him get closer, your eyes on the flowers. You came to visit Peter very often after his death, multiple times a week, day and night. Despite coming so often, you only brought flowers once a week since they stayed fresh, and also because you’d always find other sets of flowers. You knew they were likely from friends but as the months went on, your flowers were the only ones that continued to come. Whoever else came to drop off flowers stopped two or three months after Peter’s passing.

Now, you watch as Harry stands in front of Peter’s grave with a solemn look on his face. You wonder if he ever comes to visit Peter, even without flowers. You hope he did because otherwise, it’d mean Harry didn’t visit his best friend’s grave. Not for nearly five years. It’d mean today is the first time.

You watch for a few more seconds, noticing Harry’s valet down the street standing next to the car, waiting for his boss.

With a sigh, you silently bid goodbye to Peter once more before slipping away, leaving the cemetery.

You dispose of the dead flowers somewhere appropriate and walk around your city. You’re not too happy you had to cut your visit short and leaving in a rush but you had to if you wanted to avoid Harry to avoid giving him an answer.

With your thoughts on Harry, you mindlessly walk with no clear direction. You must make a decision, sooner of later. For a moment, you wish you hadn't ran into him that day. If you hadn't, you wouldn't be here now, debating this entire ordeal. You're almost certain the stress from the encounter led to you getting sick.

You stop at the end of the street now and wait for traffic while you think about the fact that you got sick and how for the first time in years, someone took care of you.

You bring a hand to your nose, touching the tip, right where Miguel applied the ointment. You smile as you recall the moment, how gentle he was while applying the product while telling you that it was going to help you breathe better. Then, he gave you his sweatshirt and a hot tea.

You fell asleep shortly after while Miguel continued to watch over you. Lyla later told you it was like a man looking after a priceless artifact that could be stolen at any point, something that of course, brought a heat to your cheeks and stirred tenderness in you.

You're not surprised. Miguel is a kind man - a good one. He's caring and tender. He has so much love to give despite all the bad things, all the losses, that's happened to him.

You continue walking, finding yourself on your street. Of course. You'd probably find your way here even with a blindfold on since you've lived here for so long. You approach the construction site, keeping some distance as your eyes take in the progress. It seems like the building will be ready in a few more weeks, and then, it'll be time to move back.

It’ll be nice to be back.

But.

You bite the inside of your cheek. But?

Miguel flashes in your mind.

Him standing in the kitchen, cooking dinner while he talks to you. Then, there’s him sitting on the couch reading, eyebrows knitted lost in deep thought. Miguel, who taps his foot or bops his head slightly when you’re both cleaning the penthouse, the upbeat music winning over his body. There’s also him falling asleep on the couch, snoring softly, which is both endearing and heartwarming, to see that he’s actually resting when he went so long neglecting his body of it.

There’s also Miguel wishing you a good night’s sleep as you both stand in the hallway, him in front of his door wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, waiting for you to enter your bedroom first before he enters his, which you believe he does to be a gentleman. It’s so sweet.

And there’s Miguel, who said was going to miss you when you return to your universe, and who you’ll be missing right back.

It seems you’ll both be missing each other. It almost feels as though, maybe… You shake your head gently.

You’ve thought about it a lot, many nights as you’ve laid in bed. The thought seems to pop up more often now that the weeks have dwindle. It doesn’t feel like much time went by since that first day when Miguel stayed at the penthouse to ensure you rested after the early morning you had helping your building’s residents evacuate.

A sheepish smile forms on your face as you remember telling Miguel how you wanted to hug him that day. You were out of it, exhausted both mentally and physically, maybe even emotionally, and the thought slipped out of your mouth. It did lead to him offering a pinky squeeze, an open one, though. Not like before when he could easily play it off as an accident because you were handing something to each other.

You hum softly. So much has changed since that day. Living with Miguel, temporarily, has allowed your friendship to grow, so much Miguel even admitted you’re his best friend.

“Best friend,” you murmur softly to yourself as you continue to stand on the sidewalk.

You miss your little old building and your small cozy apartment. There’s always going to be a coziness, a warmth from it. It’s a special place for sure, at least in your heart. And yet… You find yourself missing the housing arrangement, even though you haven’t left yet.

You’ll miss Miguel.

You sigh and shake your head.

It’ll be okay.

Things will fall into their rightful place.

They always do.

-♡-

Back in Nueva York, Earth-928, Miguel sits on the grass. He looks up at the sky for several minutes, silently. After a few days of rain, the weather has now cleared up. Today is sunny and bright, and there’s even a gentle but nice breeze that rustles Miguel’s hair. After several minutes, he closes his eyes and just - breathes.

Recently, he’s been trying to come more often and stay for a while. In the past, he was unable to. It was too hard, and after Gabriella’s universe collapsed, even more. Despite not coming often back then, Miguel always made sure the gravestones were taken care of, that they weren’t dirty and overgrown with weeds.

Recently, however, Miguel has tried to visit more often. He supposes part of the reason is that it’s easier now. It’s been several years since Gabriel and his mother passed away. Too many. It’s hard to believe that his little brother especially has been gone for so long.

Truth be told, Miguel always assumed he’d be the first to go. It made sense for the oldest sibling to pass away first, right? That’s how he thought it’d be, but life has its twists and turns, unexpected things out of our hands happen, and somehow, Miguel is still here.

Even when there were so many times he wished he wasn’t.

Miguel opens his eyes, moving his gaze to the gravestone.

When Gabriel died, Miguel especially thought about that. Gabriel deserved to live. He was a happy, outgoing young man. He brought a smile to everyone, always lifted people’s spirits.

Miguel has always believed out of the two of them, Gabriel was the better one, something he once voiced to him.

Of course, Gabriel O’Hara denied it and told him he was no better than Miguel.

With a sigh, Miguel leans forward. Losing Gabriel, it was more than losing a brother. He lost two things: his little brother, who always told him he wasn’t “little” anymore, and his best friend.

Losing him, it was the last straw. He focused entirely on his lab, burying his grief and loss with work to try and forget the fact that he had lost his last bit of family with his mother dying a previous year. He was suddenly familyless in his twenties, alone in the world.

Of course, he had Lyla but Gabri… He was gone.

Miguel inhales softly. It hurt. So bad. He never thought he could feel any worse but he was wrong because he then experienced losing Gabriella.

After several minutes of silence, Miguel sighs. “Hola hermano [Hello, brother],” he says, speaking for the first time. He’s been coming more often these days, but usually, Miguel doesn’t speak. He looks up at the sky again. “You would’ve loved this weather.”

His words are received by a bird chirping somewhere.

“Remember when we’d play fútbol [soccer] with all the other kids from the building at this time of year? The weather was warm and nice, not too hot yet. We knew school would be out soon for the summer, and we’d be able to stay up late behind our -” Miguel pauses, looking down at the gravestone. For a moment, a fraction of a second, he almost said the word. Sometimes, despite everything, he still associates the word with the man. He supposes that’s what a whole childhood does to someone. “Behind George’s back. Mama would let us stay up late in our rooms, watching movies about superheroes, wishing we were like them.” Miguel rolls his eyes playfully, a smile tugging at his lips before it falters. “Qué días… No sabía que algún día te perdería tan pronto. Siempre pensé que seria yo el que te dejaría primero. Y yo… te extraño, Gabrielito. Extraño mi hermanito enfadoso. Que daría por verte entrar a mi laboratorio para enfadarme, tal vez con otra persona de la sociedad de la cual te hiciste amigo [What days… I didn’t know one day I’d lose you so soon. I always thought it’d be me who would leave you first. And I… I miss you, Gabrielito. I miss my little annoying brother. What I would give to see you enter my lab to annoy me, maybe with another person from the society, one you became friends with]. Or, maybe… I’d see you walking in with Y/N, telling her something embarrassing about our childhood because you thought it’d be funny.” Miguel shakes his head at that image, smiling.

“I know I haven’t talked the last few times I’ve been here, but I just - I couldn’t. Not yet, but now I am. It’s been almost a year, Gabriel, since I possibly saw you. I’m still not sure if I did, or if it was just a dream - an illusion - but my heart tells me it was real. Y/N thinks so, too. Anyway,” Miguel pauses, clearing his throat. “It’s been almost a year, hermano [brother]. A year - a whole year. I’m sorry, if you’re listening, you’re probably hating that I’m repeating myself so much but, yeah, it’s been a year. Can you believe that?” Miguel asks, pausing. The same bird, probably, chirps. Miguel’s lips purse before he continues.

“A whole lot has changed, Gabriel. A lot. I… I’m a different man than I was a year ago. I can look at myself in the mirror now. I don’t shy away from my own gaze, which is another thing. My eyes. I find myself… Happy with them, along with my fangs and talons. That’s thanks to someone, and you know her very well. Well, at least in my dreams you do. Y/N. You and her get along so well in my dreams. We both wish you were around, physically, so she could’ve met you. You would’ve loved her, I know it,” Miguel says smiling again. “She’s a big part of my life now. I finally told her the other day that she’s my best friend. Oh, and she’s living with me now. Temporarily. I think… Her building will be livable again, very soon. She’ll be returning to her universe.”

Miguel looks away, staring at his lap. He picks away some grass from his bottoms, thinking. That same bird chirps again as if responding to him. He looks up again when he hears the fluttering from somewhere on the trees.

“It’s… difficult, Gabriel. I’ve grown used to her living with me. To her presence being there, both at HQ and now at the penthouse, close by. Our routines, they just merged. Clicked. Is it bad… Is it crazy that I’d like Dulzura [sweetness] - “ Miguel stops as he hears the nickname he gave you. “I’ve given her a nickname, too, Gabri. It just slipped out of my mouth that day. Dulzura [sweetness]. She’s so sweet, so kind to me - kinder than other people would ever be. Something about her, Gabri…” Miguel shakes his head. “As I was saying, I gave her a nickname. Dulzura [sweetness] - because she’s sweet and kind - but what I wanted to ask is, if it’s crazy that I’d like her to stay? For her to continue to live at the penthouse?”

The flapping of wings makes Miguel pause. He looks up, his crimson eyes finding a red bird in mid-flight. It so happens to perch itself on Gabri’s gravestone. He stares at it, watching how the bird spreads its wings before bringing them closer to its small, delicate body. Once settled, it looks around before settling its gaze on Miguel, too, observing him.

With knitted eyebrows, Miguel continues to stare, wondering if speaking will startle the bird. He decides not to for a moment, wanting to observe the bird this close up for longer. For a moment, he wishes you were here so you could see it, too. After several seconds, the bird chirps, taking small steps over Gabriel’s gravestone. Miguel remains quiet and keeps watching before the bird chirps again, stopping and turning to look at him, now on the edge of the gravestone’s top.

“What? Can’t find food?” Miguel asks. “I’m sure there’s plenty around.”

The bird chirps again. Miguel groans softly, now he’s talking to birds. “Estoy loco, verdad, ¿Gabri? [I’m crazy, right, Gabri?] I shouldn’t… but I do. I know it’s not likely. Dulzura [sweetness], she loves her apartment, so much. She’d never consider it, plus… This was only because of what happened at her building, not for any other reason. So there’s that.” Miguel frowns, picking up blades of grass with his fingers. He twirls a piece between his thumb and forefinger. “Aun así… No puedo dejar de pensar en el día que se ira [Even then… I can’t stop thinking about the day she’ll leave]. Thinking about it - it upsets me. I have no right, I know.” He gently lets go of the grass, watching it blow away with the breeze. He turns to the bird, still there. “¿Tu que? ¿Te gusto escuchar el chisme? [What of you? You liked hearing the gossip?]” He tilts his head to the side, wondering if something is wrong with this bird, but it moves just fine, no sign of injury.

He sighs.

“… I’m going to miss her, Gabriel,” Miguel admits out loud, his thoughts still on you and the fact it’s inevitable for you to move back to your apartment. “A lot,” he whispers. “But I can’t possibly ask. I can’t put her in a hard position. So, I guess in a few weeks, I’ll be staying at the penthouse on my own. Again.”

Miguel stares at the bird, wondering what his brother would say. He’d be positive about it. He’d say something like how things will work out the way they’re supposed to. So, Miguel holds on to that thought, even if things have not always turned out great for him.

-♡-

The next day, the Spider Society’s HQ is buzzing with energy since it’s Monday. Miguel and you walk side by side as you both enter the training sector, a floor designed for all forms of training, including simulations. You glance at Miguel, who’s carrying a gym bag on his broad shoulder.

Once or so every week, you join the spider gang to do training simulations but due to the cold and your period, you’re not entirely up for it today. So, you decided to ask Miguel if he’d like to join them in your place. He seem reluctant at first but then you added that you’d be here, and he agreed.

You know Miguel works out frequently, sometimes in the afternoon when everyone is gone from HQ, but ever since you temporarily moved in with him, he’s been opting to work out at home. Apparently owning the penthouse means a private gym, which Miguel told you about a few days after you moved in when he remembered it. Of course, he said you could use it if you wanted to, especially because it’s better since it’s more private than the training sector at HQ, where all the spider people train and work out.

Today, though, it seems he might try to work out a bit with the spider gang, hence his backpack to change into other clothes once the training simulation is over. The two of you walk through the sector, the place filled with many, many gym machines and then some more to accommodate the strength of the spider people, such as big blocks of metal among other things that no regular human will ever be able to lift.

As Miguel and you walk further inside, you finally spot the group, so you both head straight for them. You’re about fifty feet away from them when someone calls your name.

“Y/N.”

Miguel and you both turn, halting. Your gaze finds none other than Ben Reilly, who you know spends a lot of time here at the training sector. You smile softly at him and wave.

“Hi, Ben,” you greet him.

“Hey,” Ben replies, giving you somewhat of a smile. He raises his arm to wave back, flexing his bare biceps as he does so, not wearing his suit but rather work out gear. “Hope you’re - feeling better.”

Tilting your head to the side, you offer yet another smile. You didn’t know that others paid that much attention, though maybe it was the fact that Miguel didn’t show up that alerted them. And maybe someone from the spider gang mentioned it, so it may have reached other members’ ears.

“That’s kind of you, Ben, thank you. I’m doing much better, for sure. I still feel a little fatigue, but the worst has passed.”

“Glad to hear that, and to see you back,” he says, nodding. “See you around.”

“Alright, see you around!”

With that, you continue walking, Miguel following a step behind, his brows knitted.

It’s like he wasn’t even there, standing next to you. He glances back, finding Ben staring in your direction but immediately looking away when he notices Miguel’s gaze. He watches for a few seconds as Reilly starts working out again. Miguel exhales deeply as he turns to face the front again.

Weird, he thinks to himself as you both approach the group.

“Huh, Miguel did show up,” Hobie says, as if he expected Miguel to back out.

“This will be so much fun! Miguel is joining us for the first time!” Pav says cheerfully.

You smile as you notice the overall excitement about Miguel joining the spider gang for training today. Over the last few months, you’ve noticed Miguel trying to be more open with them and you have to admit, this little opportunity might help even more. The fact that he even accepted makes you feel very grateful and excited, even if you’re not participating today, unfortunately. Your hope, however, is that maybe after today, Miguel might be willing to train with the group from now on, including you.

“This should be interesting,” Peter B. says with Mayday hanging out on his shoulder, before everyone starts off to the simulation square, excited and eager.

Jess steps back, taking a seat on the edge of the running track. Sometimes she participates and other times she doesn’t, today being one of those days. You nod to Miguel.

“I’m going to sit with Jess. Good luck,” you tell him softly, offering a smile of encouragement.

Miguel raises an eyebrow, playfully. “Gracias [thank you]. I’ll see you in a few minutes.” Miguel watches as you take a seat next to Jess, satisfied that you’re safe and settled down, resting.

He heads to the simulation center where everyone is already waiting for him. The holographic walls engage right away, similar to those barriers used to capture anomalies except these can be broken.

From your spot, you watch as the simulation officially begins. The system selects a random New York from the database along with a random villain from those that have been captured, using the information it has on behavior and skills.

As soon as the villain pops up, the team jumps into action, quickly agreeing on roles and tasks before they split or team up.

As Jess and you watch, Jess breaks the silence.

“So… how is it?”

“How is what?” you ask, giving her a glance.

“Living with Miguel.”

“Oh,” you reply simply. You weren’t exactly expecting that question, so you feel caught off guard for a few seconds before you collect your thoughts. “It’s… great.”

“Just great?”

You chuckle. “I’m sorry, your question caught me off guard.” You sigh, watching how Hobie and Pav launch themselves off a building, swinging easily across the city. “I’ve… It’s amazing,” you start, which makes one of Jess’s eyebrows shoot up. “It’s really nice living with someone - living with Miguel. He’s a very respectful, responsible person. So… considerate. Our routines kind of - just clicked.” You pause, watching how Miguel swings after Hobie now, telling him something. Hobie nods before he parts ways with him.

Jess hums, listening.

“I’m thankful he offered his place to stay. I never thought I’d experience a fire at my building.”

“Girl - your building - I don’t mean to be mean but,” she pauses and you laugh softly.

“Okay, maybe I shouldn’t say I never expected it. I’ll agree the building is - old.”

“I was thinking ancient but old works, too.”

Jess and you laugh again.

“I don’t mean it in a bad way,” Jess says. “It’s an older building, a fire was probably not out of the question, but I understand why you’re… attached to it.”

“It’s been my home for several years. It was the place where Peter and I started our lives together.” You lean back on your hands. “But I also do find it to be cute, in its own way. Anyway, I guess a fire in the near future was not too out of the question but still, I didn’t think - so soon, I guess. It threw me off, into an unexpected situation, and I’m thankful to Miguel for opening his home to me. To all of you for offering your homes, too.”

Jess hums again. “You know my home is still open to you.”

“I know, thank you again. Hobie and the Morales family have continued to offer, but all of you have families. I didn’t want to disrupt anyone’s life. I still feel like I’m disrupting Miguel’s.”

“You’re not,” Jess says rather quickly. She shakes her head. “You know better than most people that Miguel hardly spent time at his home. It’s only been recent that he started to, at least the nights for some reason,” she says, looking at you as if you have the answers.

You keep a neutral face. You’re close with Jess, with the spider gang, but you’re not going to reveal the reason why Miguel has been going home almost every night for a whole year. You’re not going to reveal that each weekend, you offer Miguel a sweatshirt fresh with your scent nor that his gizmo plays the sound of you sleepy breathing - that both things help him sleep because they bring him comfort, that his nightmares have slowly decreased over time.

Jess hums softly, understanding. “Whatever the reason… He goes home and sleeps, I think. That’s all that matters. And recently, because you’re staying with him, he goes home earlier. Do you know how big that is?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. “It’s huge. Before you and him - became close - there were times, very rare, when I’d find him slumped over his monitors, passed out. Most of the time though, he hardly slept. He was always in a mood because of his lack of sleep. And don’t get me started on the lack of food. He’d skip meals, too.” Jess pauses and turns to look at the team, still in the simulation. Her eyes find Miguel, thinking about what a different man he is now. “You’re not disrupting anyone’s life, much less Miguel’s - believe that.” Jess stops at that, though there’s more she’d like to say, like how ever since she met Miguel and especially after losing Gabriella, Miguel was merely existing. He went through the days in a blur, day blending into night, in that dark and lonely lab of his.

Over the last year though?

Miguel O’Hara has been living.

It’s as if he’s found a new reason to try at life.

But he’s not the only one.

Jess hums to herself and turns to look at you, offering one of those smiles that never fails to bring you comfort from your once mentor.

Maybe one day, both Miguel and you will realize what you’ve truly done for each other.

For now, Jess Drew keeps smiling at you. “I’m glad to have you here, you know? This place would be very different without you.”

You smile at Jess, thinking. “Thank you, Jess. For going back to my universe even after I first declined the invitation.”

“Don’t worry about it. You made me ask and ask again, but I’m just glad you accepted at last.”

Humming, you think back to the reason for you joining. Your Peter. Jess brought him up, hoping it’d convince you. At first you wondered how she had known about him but being part of the Spider Society for some time now, you know potential recruits are watched for a few days. Mentors make sure that potential new recruits are not a liability for the society, which means Jess probably spent a few days observing you without your knowledge until she deemed you safe for recruitment. During those days, she quickly put together your life - what your schedule was like, the people that had once being in your life, and the fact that most of your talking was with petty criminals and villains before you went to an empty home.

There’s been times over the course of your time at the Spider Society when you’ve wondered where you’d be right now if you had never joined. Of course, there might never be a way to know for sure but a part of you senses that you’d still be on your own. The mere thought fills you with sadness but even more so when you think about the possibility of never meeting the people around you.

There’s a chance you would’ve never met any of them; no Hobie, Pav, or Miles. No Gwen or Margo. No Peter B. or Jess. No Noir, Penny, or Spider-Ham.

No Miguel.

Staring at the group, who are almost done with the simulation, you give a silent thank you to Peter, your Peter, from wherever he is. He was the reason you joined the society, the one that swayed your decision.

You turn to Jess. “Thank you,” you say again.

“For what?”

“You know, going back to get me to join.”

Jess smirks. “I already told you, not to worry about it - but you’re welcome,” she says, nudging your side.

Chuckling, you nudge her back.

It’s good to be here.

With a sigh of content, you watch as the simulation ends. The spider gang steps out of the holographic walls, some of them heading to the area with machines to use them.

Jess and you continue to sit by the track race, catching up on her life. A few minutes later, you both notice Miles and Pav stick to Miguel’s side as he fixes a machine to his needs before he starts using it. He’s changed into dark sweatpants and a black t-shirt, the clothes he had in his gym bag. You nod at something Jess says, watching for a few seconds as Miguel works on his arms, Pav and Miles still at his side, talking to him.

From somewhere, you hear a man grunt, catching Jess’s and your attention.

Ben Reilly puffs out air as he lifts a barbell that no human could ever lift. His bare arms tense under the weight and he let's out another noise. His arms shake as he lowers it one more time, trying to get one last rep, but even from your spot, you can see he'll struggle to lift it.

“I think Ben has pushed it too far,” Jess remarks.

“I think he might need help putting it back,” you add, frowning. “Be right back.” You stand up and approach him, noticing the shaking even more as you walk closer. You're about six feet away from him when someone brushes past you, in front of you.

It's all so quick it leaves you feeling caught off guard, but the familiar scent immediately reaches your nose before your eyes find the person.

Miguel.

He stands behind Ben and gives you a reassuring nod. “I got it. Here Ben,” he says, offering his hands to help the other Spider-Man. You notice his suit activates even over his gym clothes. It seems he doesn't want accidental physical contact.

You nod back as Ben hands the barbell to him before Miguel places it back. Meanwhile, Ben looks at you with a defeated look.

You give him a small smile. It seems he's upset about not being able to continue his reps. You step back and go back to Jess and Peter B., who’s now sitting next to her. They seemed to be gossiping about something, giggling to themselves.

“-ckblocked!” is all you manage to hear from Peter B., giggling.

Jess laughs. “Shush!”

They both notice you and hold back from their laughter.

“Should I be concerned?” you ask, taking a seat next to Jess.

“No, don't worry about it,” Jess says more seriously.

“It's nothing. You're safe,” Peter B. says.

“Safe?” you ask, confused.

“He's just being a goofball. You know how he gets,” Jess says, discreetly nudging Parker.

You shrug and turn towards Miguel and Ben, finding him talking to Reilly still.

“There's a more efficient way to do it,” Miguel says as he take the barbell, positioning his body correctly. “Look.”

Miguel demonstrates by lifting the barbell, stretching his arms above his head. His gaze is focused, staring right ahead as he brings the barbell to his chest. His suit is back to being disengaged now that Reilly is a few feet away from him, so you can see his arms flex as he moves. Your eyes take in the sight of his sleeves, which become even more taut as his muscles flex.

Miguel continues to demonstrate by holding the barbell for a few seconds before he lifts it up again, his torso’s muscles becoming prominent beneath his t-shirt. His gaze remains focused ahead, but then, it flickers to you, meeting yours.

You hold his gaze, giving him a smile and a nod, encouraging him to go on. He returns the nod, his gaze still on you for a few seconds before Ben says something to him, making Miguel’s gaze turn away from you, almost hesitantly.

You turn away and face Jess and Peter B., who you find wiggling his eyebrows at Mayday. Jess and you laugh, returning to your conversation from earlier.

Half an hour later, you decide to do at least a little bit of walking to stretch your legs, so you begin to walk around the track on your own, leaving Jess and Peter B., along with Mayday, to talk. You see them giggling again, once you’re out of ear shot, which makes you wonder but you decide to not investigate. Probably parent stuff.

A minute or two later, Miguel falls in step with you. “Doing a little walking?” he asks, looking over at you before he wipes his brow with the back of his hand.

“Yeah, I figured I’d stretch my legs a little bit, considering I hardly moved the last few days.”

Miguel nods, smiling. “I’m glad to see you’re in better spirits, to see you back on your feet.”

You return the smile. “So am I, which… reminds me.” You hold his gaze as you stop walking. “Thank you for looking after me. I…” you trail off, collecting your thoughts. “It was a while since I had become sick, but all those times, I was on my own. I got used to looking after myself, I guess, so much I forgot what it’s like to have someone worry about and look after me. Thank you, Miguel,” you say softly. “It meant so much to me.”

Miguel hums gently, nodding. You stand in front of each other, meeting each other’s gazes. “Always,” Miguel replies, his voice low, soft. “No matter what - always.”

You almost throw your arms around him. Almost pull him towards you to embrace him and not only “tell” how thankful you are for him, but also show him by giving him the tightest, warmest hug he’s ever received in his whole life.

You almost do it.

Yet, you don’t.

You wish.

Oh, how you wish you could.

You wonder. Maybe there’s a dimension out there, one that hasn’t been discovered yet in the vast multiverse, where you’re in each other’s lives, too, with the difference that that dimension’s Miguel has never shied away from physical contact.

Maybe another version of you gets to freely hug their Miguel, or rather their version of Miguel, not that Miguel is theirs in some way.

The point is, maybe there’s a universe where you don’t hold back from hugging Miguel when you wish to. One in which your version can just hug him.

Like you wish you could right now.

You smile at him, your arms wishing to wrap around him, despite his sweat. “Always,” you whisper.

You both smile at each other, forgetting that you’re in the Spider Society’s training sector with multiple sets of eyes and ears, some curious to catch a glance or a snippet of your moment and friendship.

After a few seconds, you begin to walk together again, soft smiles on your faces.

“I was thinking - how do you feel about homemade pizza for dinner?” Miguel asks, his gaze on you despite the multiple distractions in the space.

“Homemade pizza?” you ask.

“Yes, we can customize - if you’d like to, of course. I was just thinking - I don’t know where the idea came from.”

“Homemade pizza sounds amazing! I’m up for it,” you say looking up at him giddily, which only makes Miguel happy. “We’d need to buy a few ingredients, but we can get them.”

“I was thinking of going to the grocery store. Do you want to go with me?” Miguel asks, tilting his head.

You nod immediately. “Yeah, I’d love to! Just tell me what time, so I can get regular clothes on.”

“I was thinking leaving earlier today,” Miguel says as you both keep walking.

“How early are we talking?”

Miguel grins. “Like… an hour or two.”

You hum softly in response.

“Two hours before my usual departure time,” Miguel decides in the moment, the decision an easy one in your presence.

You grin. “You made your mind up quickly.”

Miguel rolls his eyes playfully. “We can meet up at the penthouse, change, and head to the grocery store.”

“Sounds like a plan,” you answer, looking forward to some homemade pizza and quality time with your best friend.

-♡-

Miguel carries the grocery basket while you both walk down the aisles, gathering the few ingredients that are needed for dinner. Just like Miguel suggested, the two of you left HQ thirty minutes ago, two whole hours earlier than Miguel usually leaves, and went straight to the penthouse to change in to regular clothes, and are now at one of Miguel’s favorite grocery stores in Nueva York.

You’ve seen it before but you’re still in awe as you both shop around, noticing the holograms for screens from which the best deals and newest items are displayed for customers to see. You even catch sight of holographic AIs, much like Lyla, that customers can refer to if they can’t find an item.

Even though it’s just a grocery trip, you find yourself enjoying it because you get to see more of Miguel’s universe, and you’re not the only one. Miguel walks next to you, the grocery basket looking like it’s part of a child’s grocery toy set near him, with great contentment thanks to your wide eyes and “oohs” when you see something exciting. You even end up checking out the sweets aisle, where Miguel added everything that you seemed to stare at for too long to the basket despite your protest once you noticed it.

At last, the two of you head to the check out section. Even though Miguel used the “scan and go” mobile option and paid online, you must show up to this area for an employee to check the purchases. So, you both stand there and wait for your turn to show the receipt. Meanwhile, you take a sip from a coffee Miguel bought you earlier from the attached coffee shop, insisting on you getting something. You declined at first but now that you’ve had it, you’re glad he offered because it’s great. Glancing at the cup, you notice there’s less than three sips left as you both step forward for a woman to scan your receipt from Miguel’s phone.

“How are you doing today? Did you guys find everything you needed?”

You nod with a smile, letting Miguel do the talking. It’s his universe after all.

“We did, thank you,” Miguel says as the lady scans the basket, placing the items in the bags Miguel brought with him.

You finish your drink and look around, noticing garbage bins nearby. “Hey, I’m going to throw this away real quick. It’s so good, I already finished it! Thank you for buying it for me,” you say with a smile. “I’ll be right back.”

Miguel gives you a small smile and nods before you head off.

The lady, noticing the interaction, smiles. “Aww, how sweet! You bought your girlfriend a coffee. What a gentleman,” she says, making Miguel nearly choke on his own saliva, something the lady seems to miss entirely, too busy talking and scanning the items to make sure everything is as it’s supposed to be. “And based on your groceries, you’re having a homemade pizza date.” She finishes her job and steps back, smiling. “You guys have a wonderful evening together!”

Miguel nods, still coughing quietly behind a small, sheepish smile. His cheeks are red as he approaches you, trying to stop the coughing. He stops a few feet behind you as you read something about the store’s recycling system. Apparently recycling is taken more seriously in Nueva York.

Miguel clears his throat, his chest finally calming down.

Your girlfriend, the lady said too happily, too certain. Like there’s no doubt that you’re Miguel’s girlfriend. He stares at your back as you read, still feeling shocked but he composes himself when you finally turn around to face him with a happy smile.

“This is really cool, I wish we had this in my… you know,” you say, remembering not to say anything about universes. The last thing you want is for people to think you’re talking crazy.

With a short exhale, Miguel nods, finding his voice once again. “The work they do is incredible. They’re trying to implement it to more stores like this one. It’s why I shop here, they’re a far more ethical company than others whose greed leads their decisions, even when it concerns everyone,” he explains softly as you both head to the exit.

“That’s really great, I’m glad you have that here. It’s unfortunate that’s not the case in all universes.”

“I know,” Miguel replies as you both begin to walk down the sidewalk. He doesn’t even realize it, but he walks closest to the street, keeping you away from it as he easily carries the bags in one hand, like it’s nothing.

The two of you continue to chat on the way home. Miguel points out buildings to you and answers questions you ask about certain things from his universe until the two of you eventually reach Miguel’s building. Instead of sneaking in through the windows like you both usually do, you get to the penthouse though the elevator and the main front door where Miguel asks you to open it, using your own fingerprint. He added you to the security system almost a year ago, so when you press your finger, the system immediately identifies you.

Together, you put groceries away before you both head to take a shower, in your respective bathrooms, of course.

Miguel, showered and wearing lounging clothes, makes it downstairs first. He heads to the kitchen to start gathering ingredients onto one of the counters, but he gets distracted though. There, on the counter, lies one of your hair ties. He takes a seat, just for a few seconds to look at it. You must have left it while you were putting items away and simply forgot about it.

Usually, you pick everything up, never leaving your personal items lingering around for too long. Miguel knows it’s because you don’t want to make the penthouse appear “cluttered” with your belongings, which Miguel has told you before that it’s fine. It’s not like small things such as your jewelry and hair accessories is going to make the space cluttered, but it seems you’re too respectful of the place to even leave a hair tie for longer than a few hours.

Due to that, Miguel appreciates the fact that you forgot your hair tie now. The truth is, he enjoys seeing little reminders around the penthouse that you’re here. It’s so comforting to him, to know he’s not alone in this big penthouse.

He gently picks it up now, as if it’s the most delicate of things. He finds himself smiling at the sight. Who knew a simple hair tie could bring such happiness to a man? He lets it slip down his fingers, still admiring it with a smile before he slightly stretches it. He’s very careful with it as he doesn’t want to rip it somehow. He learned from his short time with Gabriella that these things are sensitive.

“Miguel? Have you seen my hair tie?” you ask from the living room, coming to the kitchen.

Startled, Miguel quietly slams it back on the counter. His hand lays flat over it for the most part, minus his talons which came out from being startled since he failed to hear your footsteps, too focused on the hair tie. He turns to the entrance just as you walk in.

“... I have not,” Miguel says and then he moves his hand, his talons withdrawn now. He turns to the counter. “Never mind, it’s here.” He picks it up and holds it out, trying to play it off like he wasn’t holding it in his fingers just seconds ago.

You reach his side and take it, looking at it while your mind wonders. You smile. “Thank you. I forgot it down here.” You slip it onto your wrist for now. “Ready to start cooking?”

Miguel nods, his cheeks dusted with a blush. He’s relieved you didn’t catch him holding your hair tie. That’d be too much, right? “Ready,” he replies, standing up.

As you begin to gather what’s needed, Miguel turns on his record player and chooses upbeat music to go with the mood.

With everything on the counter ready to go, you work on the sauce while Miguel works on the dough. He offered to work on it, saying his hands could cover more ground than your smaller ones.

“Plus, years of making tamales will help,” he says as he finds the appropriate measuring cup.

Once Miguel is done and you have the sauce on the stove, you begin to prepare the toppings side by side on the counter, chatting about what you’re putting on your pizzas. At one point, you finish with your part of the toppings, so you move on to prep the pans for the dough while Miguel dices some vegetables.

While prepping the pans, you glance at the windows, noticing the way the kitchen is illuminated with golden hues, giving Miguel’s place a very cozy vibe. You even notice little rainbows on the ceiling, which you point out to him.

Staring at them, he can’t remember ever noticing them before, until now. He smiles at the sight, finding it cute that you noticed that and shared it with him.

You eventually begin to work with the dough for your pizzas when it’s ready since it needed to do its thing. The mood is a light one as you work side by side on the counter. After the last few days with you being sick and running into Harry, this moment is a relaxing one for both Miguel and you. Time seems to slow down as you both continue to talk, at some point even about the grocery store and how you think it’s, “so cool,” which earns yourself a smile from Miguel.

You add a little bit of flour to your dough before you roll the pin over it, trying to make it into a decent circle. You turn to look at Miguel’s to see how his is doing. You notice it looks great, and also that his fingerprints are all over the dough just like yours are over your own.

“Your dough looks-” you pause when you look at his face. You instantly smile and try not to chuckle. “Great. It’s almost a perfect circle.”

“You think so?” Miguel asks giving you his attention, unaware that he has flour on his cheek and nose.

“Definitely,” you reply, smiling. Deciding not to tell him about it, you turn back to your own to keep working on it.

“Thank you,” Miguel says, feeling pleased with himself. “I’ve never made homemade pizzas before.”

You hum gently. “Me neither. It’s kind of funny, I guess. We cook a lot and we’ve never made any.”

“First time for the two of us then,” he replies with a smile, which makes you smile, too.

Silently, you both feel pleased about this - about the fact that you’re both doing something new, together.

“Hiiii, guys! Making pizza?” Lyla asks, popping out of nowhere. She floats in front of Miguel and you, taking a look down at the counter like a manager inspecting quality. “It’s looking good. You guys are good at this, look at you.” She grins and looks up at you two again.

You thank Lyla before Miguel adds a quiet “thanks” as well.

“Uh - hm,” Lyla starts but stays quiet, noticing the flour on Miguel’s face. “Picture!” Before Miguel and you can react, Lyla takes a picture. “So sweet!”

“Lyla - always the same thing with you,” Miguel says but his tone is not angry or even bothered. In a way, his tone reminds Lyla of a disappointed parent.

She grins knowing that at this point, both of you have accepted that she takes pictures whenever she wants. “It’s not the first one I’ve taken today,” she says shrugging. “I took some before I even popped up.”

You raise an eyebrow but once again, don’t feel surprised. “How many have you taken?” you ask.

“A few. I may show them to you later,” she says. “I’m still deciding.”

“I can always just look for them,” Miguel says as he adds sauce to the dough.

“Good luck with that,” Lyla says, crossing her arms over her chest. “So… are you guys just making pizzas? No movie, no telenovela?”

You turn to look Miguel. You hadn’t thought of that, and it seems neither did Miguel because he turns to look at you with a look that confirms so.

“I… Didn’t think of that,” Miguel says. “Do you want to watch a movie?”

You shrug slightly. “If you want to. I’m up for it.”

“I have the best movie rec for you guys,” Lyla says clapping her hands. “It’s about a guy and a girl. They meet up and then become best of friends and -”

“So, you’re going to give us a summary?” Miguel asks.

Lyla sighs. “You know what? I’ve changed my mind. I’ll give you guys another rec.” She taps her chin, thinking. “The guy and girl end up together in the end,” Lyla says quietly to herself with a grin, watching you two. “You guys feel like watching an action movie? Maybe a mystery one? Or a horror movie? Or - maybe a romcom?” Lyla says, laying out the options, an eyebrow raised.

“I’m not picky,” Miguel says as he watches you carefully spread sauce. “What do you want to watch, dulzura [sweetness]?”

Your hand falters for a fraction of a second when you hear the nickname. Just a few days ago Miguel said it for the first time and since then, he’s said it a few more times - dropping the nickname here and there. Every single time has been when you’re both alone, either here at the penthouse or at the lab.

Either way, it’s caught you by surprise each time without failure. You smile softly at him. “I’m not picky either, we can watch anything, really.”

“Well, if I may… I say no horror,” Lyla says. “The sun is still out. The vibes for it are not it, you know?”

“Wait, I kind of want to see how horror movies are made in this universe with all the technology you have,” you say realizing.

Lyla frowns and Miguel smiles.

“You want to? I’m not a big horror fan but there’s a few classic ones.”

“Yeah… I think I’d like that,” you say nodding.

Lyla watches as Miguel shrugs. “We’ll watch that then.”

You both continue to work on the pizzas, adding your toppings now. Lyla stays in place, arms crossed over her chest with a frown. She sighs. “I still think my first rec was better than any horror movie but what do I know? I’m just the silly AI,” she mumbles.

“What is that word the spiderlings were using today?” Miguel says as he thinks back to training earlier today. “When someone just keeps talking?

“You mean, ‘yapping?’”

“Yeah, that one. Lyla is doing that right now,” he says looking at Lyla.

“You did not -” Lyla stops and facepalms.

“Professional yapper,” you say which makes Miguel chuckle next to you.

“Not you guys calling me a profesional yapper,” Lyla says.

“She’s still going,” Miguel comments as he adds more toppings to his pizza, smirking.

“I see why you’re best friends,” Lyla says in disbelief, which makes both Miguel and you chuckle. She shakes her head, not annoyed but amused. It’s good to see the two of you smiling and laughing. She’s slightly temped to say that you’re both “professional yappers” with each other, staying up until 3am in the living room talking about the most random things, but she holds back. “I’ll set up a horror movie for you guys,” she says with a sigh, disappearing.

An hour later, Miguel and you are sitting in the living room. Neither of you planned to watch a movie today, especially not over dinner but because of Lyla’s suggestion, you’re now both sat on the ground over the coffee table. You cleared it earlier to make space for the plates and drinks, and everything else needed. The blinds have been drawn, leaving the living room in complete darkness except for the TV.

The movie starts, so Miguel and you begin to eat, sitting across from each other.

“Wow, this is great,” Miguel murmurs after he finishes eating the first bite. “Wanna try it?”

Seeing you nod, Miguel offers the plate for you to grab a slice from his.

“Try mine,” you say softly, offering your plate, too.

Hums of approval for each other’s pizzas follows. Napkins and crushed red pepper flakes are exchanged, fingers brushing in the darkness.

You watch the movie in peace, exchanging words here and there until you decide to do an intermission halfway to use the bathroom and clean the remainder of the kitchen, not having much left to do since you both tried to clean up as you were cooking to avoid having a huge mess behind. You head upstairs to your bedroom when you’re both done cleaning to grab a sweatshirt since you’ve grown cold downstairs with the AC constantly turning on. You slide it on, fixing the sleeves when you notice your hair tie, the one you were looking for earlier. You forgot you left it on the counter after arriving back from the grocery store and looked for it here in your room, having forgot where you left it.

You tug at it gently, thinking. Miguel may have been able to play it off well, but it was a second too late.

You saw him holding it and though you weren’t able to see his face, his bashful reaction when you entered the room said a lot. You’ve known for some time that Miguel doesn’t mind you leaving your items around. He’s gone on to say you’re not cluttering the space because he knows that’s how you think, and even Lyla has told you that it probably brings some sort of comfort to Miguel. You hum softly to yourself, ready to head downstairs again as you think about the hair tie when your eyes land on the bookcase inside the room. It so happens to land on a photograph of your parents. It’s a photograph you used to have on your wall back at your apartment, so of course, you have it on display here. You walk over to it, staring at your parents.

It’s hard to believe how many years have gone by since they passed away, so many more than Peter. It hurt at the time, to know that you weren’t there to save them. You miss them every day, wished they were here. Sometimes you wonder if you would’ve told them about your secret, about being Spider-Woman if they were still alive.

You don’t know. Maybe not with the dangers that come with it. You smile and place a finger on the photo, thinking about how a few weeks ago it was Mother’s Day, which reminds you of Father’s Day. With a sigh, you tap the photo gently and whisper an “I love you” to your parents’ photograph before you check your gizmo.

Sure enough, Father’s Day is this Sunday, in just a few days. You check the calendar, noticing that it’ll be Father’s Day in other universes, too, including Miguel’s.

You turn to a photo of him and you, also displayed in the bookcase.

It’s one of the photos Lyla took in the past, the day she revealed that she takes photos, to be exact. It was the day you were painting picture frames at your apartment, in the middle of redecorating, when Miguel showed up to invite you for dinner as a thank you for looking after him. You remember it now. You had paint on your face and he didn’t tell you until later on, when he wiped it away.

The memory reminds you of Miguel’s face while you were cooking earlier, his cheek and nose dusted with flour. You grin at the memory and leave your bedroom, still thinking about Father’s Day. You silently debate about it as you walk down the staircase. You’d like to gift Miguel something but you wonder if it’s a good idea at all. You don’t want to upset him, to cause him any more pain than necessary. In the past, you’ve never spent the day with him, so you don’t know what he does, if he even reacts to it. This will be the first year you’ll be in his presence for the day and a part of you feels worried.

You reach the end of the stairs, now in the living room. You hear noise in the kitchen, alerting you that Miguel is there. You turn to the wall of photographs you put together, illuminated softly by a lamp Miguel turned on earlier when you both decided to take a break.

Miguel has changed a lot, this wall is a great sign of that but you still wonder if gifting him something on Father’s Day might upset him.

“Everything okay?” Miguel asks stepping into the living room.

You turn, startled. You’re still amazed sometimes at how he manages to sneak up on you. You’d think that a man of his size would make more noise when walking but no. Sometimes he walks so silently, you don’t know he’s there until he speaks up.

“Yes, I was just - looking,” you reply, glancing back at the wall, at a photo of Gaby. You smile softly at it for a second before giving Miguel your attention. He’s already walked to the coffee table, which has been cleared once more. He places two mugs on the surface, over coasters, and sits down on the floor again.

“What did you make?” you ask but you already have an idea as you make your way over.

“Give it a second,” he says with a soft smirk, knowing that the scent will reach your nose soon enough.

You reach the table, noticing the mugs filled with a dark liquid. Your favorite.

“I’m not even going to ask how you made it so quick,” you say which makes Miguel chuckle.

“I won’t reveal my secrets, then.”

You snort softly and turn your gaze to him, noticing he still has flour on his face. “I’ll be right back.” You head to the kitchen for a napkin, returning to the table in no time. You kneel on your side of the table.

“I forgot to tell you earlier,” you start as you fold the napkin while Miguel watches you with curiosity, wondering.

“What is it?” he asks softly, his head tilting to the side.

“You have a little something - right,” you lean over the table, carefully, and reach with the napkin. “Here,” you say, wiping his cheek and then dabbing his nose gently. You pull back, not missing the way Miguel blinks in surprise, his brows knitting slightly. He didn’t protest nor pulled back though, he simply accepted it, either willingly or because he was too caught off guard.

You place the napkin down and pick up the mug, taking it in both hands and inhaling the rich scent. “Always smells so good,” you mumble bringing it to your mouth. “Thank you for making it.”

Miguel nods, still blinking. His brain is having a moment, trying to catch up. “Si [yes], you’re we- Always,” he says. stammering. “I hope you like it,” he adds picking up his own and holding it with one hand.

“Should we unpause?”

“Yeah, I - I got it.” Miguel grabs the remote and unpauses as he speaks. “Thank you for, you know, my face,” he says as the movie starts playing again.

“Always,” you say humming, your eyes on the TV once more as you settle down and get comfortable.

You watch the rest of the movie without pauses, drinking your coffees in comfy lounging clothes. Miguel threw on a sweatshirt earlier, too, so you’re both donning sweatshirts now. It’s not until the movie is over that you realize it’s the same one he offered to you when you were sick. Of course, you threw it in the wash since you were sick and returned it to him, along with his blanket.

You glance at Miguel as he reads from a book. It’s a new one. Apparently he finished the previous one while looking after you a few days ago. He turns the page, his eyes moving across the page. You’re both still sitting on the ground, across from each other.

You turn back to your tablet, looking for gifts to give fathers. You don’t even know why you searched that up, but you did, almost mindlessly, as soon as you grabbed the tablet. So now, you’re “just looking.” You’re not buying anything. You don’t think so.

As you scroll, your mind is contemplating.

Should you, or should you not?

You know it might be a hard day for Miguel but at the same time, simply ignoring the day and making it seem like it’s a regular Sunday seems cruel to you.

You chew on your bottom lip.

Which is crueler? Ignoring the day, or bringing it up?

“What are you thinking about?”

You look up, caught off guard. Miguel is staring at you, his book in one hand held open by a finger.

“I… Nothing,” you say softly.

“I don’t believe you,” Miguel replies, knowing you too well. Something is bothering you.

“I… well,” you start, trying to give yourself time to think of a little white lie. “It’s just … I’m thinking about… Yesterday.” You nod, finding a truth. “When I went to the cemetery, I saw Harry there.”

Miguel nods, not giving away that he knows you’re telling him something else. He noticed the way you were thinking, giving yourself time. He goes along with it anyway, trusting that whatever was truly on your mind, you’ll feel comfortable to share with him later on if you wish to. At least, it doesn't seem to be life or death. Still, the fact that you ran into Harry makes his brows raise.

“You did?”

“Yeah. He didn’t see me. I - I fled like a criminal from Peter’s grave,” you say wincing as you realize that’s basically how you left, running away from there before he could spot you. “I didn’t want to run into him and have to give him an answer when I don’t have one yet. Or, have to tell him that I’m still thinking about it, you know? So, I just - avoided him.”

“I don’t blame you,” Miguel replies gently, placing his book down after saving his page with a bookmark. “It’s only been a few days since you saw him again after so many years. I hope he’d understand that his request might need more than a few days to be considered.”

Leaning back on the couch, you nod, relieved Miguel didn’t notice that you very last minute thought of the Harry situation. “I’m sure he would - at least the Harry I knew back then would, but I suppose that doesn’t matter much now. Maybe I don’t know him anymore. So many years have gone by and I’ve changed. Maybe he has, too.”

“Change - is good,” Miguel answers. He knows that himself. He wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t for the changes he’s made in his life, for accepting and embracing them even when there have been times when it was hard. “Maybe he has changed - matured,” he adds, leaving out that maybe he’s learned not to abandon friends in need. He frowns, his hand curling into a loose fist for a few seconds before he relaxes. “It’s only been a few days. You still have time to think about it, figure out what you think is best for you. Not for him.”

Letting Miguel’s words sink in, you nod with a small smile. “I appreciate your encouraging words. I’ll admit, this threw me off guard more than I’d like, so I find your words reassuring. I don’t need to rush and make a decision,” you say. “I just need to not feel guilty or selfish about it.”

“That’s the last thing you are,” Miguel says leaning on the coffee table slightly. “You’re not selfish for taking your time, nor would you be selfish if you chose to - step back, even if it’s for now. I’m… I have no right to say anything. I know he was in your life since your childhood, and I’m no one to tell you-” Miguel says pausing to gather his thoughts.

“You’re my best friend,” you say softly, seizing Miguel’s pause to speak. “I appreciate your thoughts, your advice - I’ll say what you once told me - you’re someone to me.”

Miguel hums, a smile forming on his lips when he hears you reciprocate his very words from so long ago. Back then, he was unable to call you his friend, so he used the word “someone” instead. “You’re someone to me, too.” Now, he can say it though, so he does. “You’re my best friend.”

Smiling back at him, your heart is elated to hear those words from Miguel’s mouth once again. To have him verbally say it - you’re his best friend.

And he’s yours.

You push down the happiness, remembering you were talking about Harry and your decision. “So… you were saying?” you ask.

“Right,” Miguel says, also recalling what the conversation is even about. “I was saying that… Well, my opinion doesn’t matter at the end of the day. No one’s does. The decision is up to you, but no one would blame you for stepping back, or asking Harry for more time to think about it, but that’s just a thought. All I hope is that you don’t feel pressure, nor stress from your decision when you make one.”

You nod, thinking about his words as you rub your thumb over your knuckles. “I don’t know right now. I don’t have a clear answer, and I don’t want to rush into making one.” You sigh and meet his gaze. “You’re right. It’s only been a few days, and I spent a lot of those days resting and sleeping, so I hardly even gave it a thought. A few more days won’t be so bad.”

“I concur,” Miguel says. “There’s plenty of time to think about it. Just - don’t get too stressed about it, okay? I have a feeling part of the reason why you got sick was because of stress you were - are - feeling about this situation.”

“I won’t, I’ll take it easy,” you reassure Miguel. “I don’t want to get sick again.”

“Me neither,” Miguel says, genuinely as he hated seeing you sick. “I hated seeing you sick, you know…”

You flash him a smile, moving your thumb from your knuckles to your wrist, feeling your hair tie. “I can imagine. I hated seeing you injured a year ago.”

He hums in response, understanding. If he hated seeing you sick with a cold, he can only imagine what he’d feel if something else - something worse - happened to you. He silently prays he never has to witness something like that with you. “Hopefully, it never gets to something like that again. For either of us.”

“I hope not,” you reply, still touching your hair tie. “By the way…”

“Yeah?” he says, raising an eyebrow.

“Do you want more café de olla [coffee]?”

Amused, he nods. “Yeah, I could go for another mug.”

“I got it then,” you say, standing up and grabbing both your mugs. Miguel thanks you as you head to the kitchen. You come back a minute later and place yours down, holding on to his. “Here,” you say, placing his in front of him.

He looks at it, smiling. “Thank you again, I appreciate it,” Miguel says softly before he notices your hair tie next to it, laying on the table. He looks up just as you sit down once more. “You dropped your hair tie,” he says picking it up, remembering earlier when you almost caught him playing with it.

“I did? Oh, I didn’t even notice,” you say, surprised. “I had it in my pocket. Hold it for me, let me get a napkin, yeah?”

“Yeah, of course.” Miguel watches you return to the kitchen, still holding your hair tie.

You return and sit down, placing napkins for each other. You notice Miguel is still holding on to your hair tie. “I think I’m just going to leave it here for now. It was bothering my wrist earlier and seems like it fell from my pocket. I don’t want to lose it,” you say. “It’s my favorite.”

Miguel nods, holding it. He places it down gently, like it’s some delicate item that might break. “You can leave it here on the coffee table, so you don’t lose it.”

“You’re right, I’m going to leave it here,” you say with a smile before you pick up your tablet again, not giving it more attention than necessary to avoid raising any suspicions.

Miguel goes back to reading after a few seconds, seeing you go back to whatever it was you were doing on your tablet.

A little while after searching the internet for gift ideas, you subtly look up.

Miguel is leaning on the couch, his book in his hand. His eyes move across the page fast, intrigued by the plot of his book. Under the coffee table, which is built in a way that allows people’s legs under, you feel his lower leg resting against your own. You hadn’t even noticed it but now that you are, you’re aware of the warmth, finding it comforting.

Up on the table, his free hand rests there. His fingers are busy playing with your hair tie. He turns it around his fingers before he slips it down his hand to his wrist so he can flip the page.

You turn back to your tablet with a smile, saying nothing for now.

It’s much later when you’re both heading upstairs to sleep that he remembers he has it, still on his wrist. He stops in front of his bedroom and turns to face you.

For a moment you think he’s just doing his normal gesture, waiting for you to enter your bedroom first before he enters his to be a gentleman but you notice his hand on his wrist.

“I have your…” he starts, trailing off.

“It’s alright,” you say from your door. “You can keep it.”

“I - what?” Miguel asks, taken aback.

“You may keep it.”

“Your hair tie…?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s your favorite.”

“I know.”

“So you should have it back, then.”

“You can give it back tomorrow if you’d like, but I don’t mind. Keep it safe for me,” you say before you yawn, covering your mouth. “Goodnight, Migs. Sleep well, okay? I’ll see you in the mornin’.” You give him a little wave and a sleepy smile before entering your room, leaving Miguel in the hallway.

His fingers remain on your hair tie, wrapped around his wrist. For a few seconds, he stands still until he shakes his head, dropping his hand from his wrist and entering his bedroom at last.

Inside his room, he heads for the bathroom to do his night routine. He makes sure to take off your hair tie to avoid getting it damp, taking it back with him to the bedroom when he’s done and placing it on his nightstand. He takes off his shirt and throws it at the end of the bed before he gets the bed ready. In a few seconds, he settles under the covers with a sigh. He stares at the ceiling for several minutes, sleep slowly coming to him as he thinks. He eventually reaches for the hair tie and slips it into his wrist before he turns on his side.

Miguel’s hand searches the other side of the bed, looking for something. Once he finds it, he tugs it towards him along with a pillow. He easily slips the pillow into it, gently tugging the fabric down so the pillow is covered. At last, Miguel hugs the pillow, now covered by your sweatshirt, to his chest.

His eyes close as your scent reaches his nose.

“Lyla - do the thing,” he murmurs. Two seconds later, his gizmo plays the recording of your breathing.

With his sleep remedies in place, Miguel slowly succumbs to his slumber as he thinks about the day. There was training with the spider gang, which he enjoyed. He might join them again if they’ll have him. There was helping Reilly, who was acting strange today. He’s never seen Reilly struggle with a set before. Weird. Then, there was grocery shopping with you.

Miguel yawns quietly, shifting slightly to get comfy.

He bought you a coffee and you seemed to love it. Oh, and for some reason the lady working there thought you were his girlfriend. Strange. Then, you made pizzas and spent the evening watching the horror movie. Café de olla [coffee] was made and drank while you did your own things in each other’s company. The conversation of Harry came back.

Half-asleep and half-awake, Miguel sighs at that before he thinks about your hair tie, now on his wrist.

And to end the day, there was the nickname.

Migs.

More asleep than anything now, Miguel smiles sleepily, hugging your sweatshirt closer. “Buenas noches, dulzura [Good night, sweetness].” -Father’s Day-

Days later, you wake up around 8am. You go through your morning routine as usual, though you know what day it is.

It’s Sunday, but not just any Sunday.

You walk downstairs after changing into regular clothes, hoping to find Miguel on the first floor. You noticed his bedroom door is fully opened, which usually means he’s already awake but when you reach the first floor, he’s nowhere to be found. You check the office downstairs and the other living room. Nothing.

Stepping into the kitchen and dining room area, you notice a thermos with a note on it.

You reach for it, feeling the warmth from the bottle as you take off the sticky note. You almost get excited about the fact that he left you a note just like how you leave some for him on some days but his message doesn’t bring a smile to your face.

Frowning, you place the sticky note on the counter with his neat handwriting.

“Went to HQ. I’ll be back in a while. - M”

It’s not surprising that he’s at HQ on a Sunday. For as long as you’ve known him, you’ve known that Miguel was always at HQ, even on the weekends. Over the last year, you’ve noticed he only goes for a bit on both days before returning home, and ever since you’ve been staying with him, he goes for an hour or so. Even then, he’s been going later in the day, not so early like today.

You have a pretty good idea why.

Father’s Day.

You wondered over the week if Miguel would mention it, whether he would react to it as the day got here. He didn’t say nor react over the week, even when Peter B. mentioned something about it to Miles on Friday in his presence at which you shot him a look.

You know Peter B. meant no wrong by it, but sometimes it seems a bit inconsiderate considering the situation and how Miguel’s loss is still fresh.

You open the thermos, the amazing scent of coffee greeting you. You sigh. The fact that he still made coffee despite the day hurts.

“You’re too good,” you whisper to yourself, thinking about him. “Lyla?”

“Hey, there,” she says appearing instantly. “You want to know about Miguel?”

“Yes,” you reply, not bothering to wonder how she knows.

“He’s… at the lab.”

“I know that much,” you reply.

”He’s just working,” Lyla says, shrugging. “He always works today.”

You nod, frowning. “So there’s no missions, no emergencies?”

“Nope. Nada [nothing]. He’s just… there.”

“I see.”

“Are you gonna - join him?” Lyla asks.

“Do you think he’ll stay there all day?” you ask, wondering.

“In the past, he has but this year with you being here… I don’t know, honestly.”

Noticing your frown and worried expression, Lyla adds, “I’ll keep an eye out for him.”

You nod, grateful. “Thank you, Lyla.”

“You got it. Just - stay put, alright?”

“Alright.”

Lyla flickers away, leaving you alone. You check the time. It’s barely about to be 8:30.

You take a seat at the counter and drink the coffee in silence, thinking about how Miguel probably wants some alone time right now. You decide to let him be until noon, at which point you’ll show up to drop off some food so he can at least eat because you have a guess he hasn’t had anything except coffee.

After finishing your coffee, you eat something before going to your universe to check on things. You stay alert to your gizmo, just in case Lyla notifies you about anything, but no notifications come.

You return home an hour later after an easy patrol. Usually there’s no crimes on holidays like these, so there was no trouble. You do some light cleaning around the penthouse to waste time before you jump in the shower and get dressed for the day.

Back in the kitchen now, you notice it’s nearly noon. There’s still no sign of Miguel even when you decide to make lunch since you didn’t eat much before you went out.

It’s an easy lunch, so it doesn’t take long to finish making it. After eating, you gather ingredients onto one of the counters to bake. You decided a few days ago that you wanted to bake something for Miguel today, even if you play it off as a regular baking day and not because it’s Father’s Day.

“Hey, he’s heading out and coming back,” Lyla says as you place the last ingredient on the counter. “He’s a little quiet but not in a bad mood.”

“Thank you for letting me know. I appreciate it, Lyla,” you reply.

“Of course. Take care,” she says, deciding that she’s not needed. Miguel will have someone with him today. You. She waves goodbye before disappearing.

With Lyla gone, you start the oven and check on the lunch. You made plenty for both yourself and Miguel, so you begin to prep it for him.

Sure enough, you hear a window from the living room open a few minutes later. You look up just in time to see Miguel enter the kitchen, donning his suit. For a few seconds, you say nothing, trying to gauge his mood.

He reaches the counter, saying nothing. The oven beeps, indicating that it’s done preheating. It catches his attention, breaking him away from his thoughts.

“…Morning,” he says at last.

“Morning,” you reply. “Do you want something to eat?”

He starts to shake his head but his stomach grumbles with the scent of food in the air. “Yeah, but don’t worry about it. I’ll eat somet-”

“I made lunch,” you interject gently. “I made plenty, if you’d like some.” You fix a plate and show it to him. Thankfully he accepts it and eats at the counter, thanking you.

You do your measuring of ingredients, subtly looking at Miguel ever once in a while as he eats. You can definitely sense a different Miguel right now.

He finishes eating and excuses himself after he puts the dirty dishes away, promising to wash them in a bit before heading upstairs.

You bake on your own for a while. Lyla eventually plays music for you through Miguel’s sound system, probably finding the mood too somber, or something.

Half an hour later, Miguel walks back into the kitchen. His hair is damp and he’s dressed in a t-shirt and sweats. He approaches the counter, watching you as you check the oven through the glass.

When you turn to see him, he offers a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. The sight hurts you, but you don’t let it show.

“Hey,” he says. “How’s your baking going?”

“Um - good. No problems,” you reply, for a moment not knowing how to respond.

“Good, I’m glad it’s going well.”

You nod. “Do you - Did that meal fill you up? I can make something else.”

He shakes his head. “No, I’m alright, thank you. Lunch was good - it was fulfilling.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Miguel nods, thinking. He sits down, watching as you wipe the stand mixer down.

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, making you stop. “Today…” Miguel trails off.

“I know,” you say softly. “You don’t have to explain. I understand.”

He sighs gently, your words soothing him. He suspected you’d know but he still wanted to let you know.

“I’m better now,” he says after a few seconds. “I just needed - to be out of the penthouse for a moment. I’m sorry for leaving.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“I just left a sticky note,” he says, shaking his head at himself, as if disappointed at his actions. “Not - very nice of me.”

“Miguel,” you say, straightening up and meeting his gaze. “You don’t have to apologize nor give me any explanations. I understand you needed a moment, or maybe you need the day. And that’s understandable. No one would blame you for doing so.”

Miguel’s eyes soften, he offers a smile once again. This time, it looks more lively.

“Thank you for - always being so understanding, dulzura [sweetness],” he says, so softly.

“Always,” you reply, offering a warm smile.

Miguel keeps smiling, taking in the soft look on your face. You really are so understanding, so sweet.

“I’ll be here for you,” you add. “Whatever you want to do today, I’ll be here if you need me.”

He nods, looking at the counter now. “I really - don’t want to go anywhere.”

That makes sense. There’s probably families out and about, celebrating the day.

“We can stay here then. I’ll let you be.”

“No.”

“No?” you repeat.

“No, you don’t have to - let me be. You can… You can stay with me?” he says, sounding more like a question.

“If you want to… I can.”

“Yes - please.”

So you do. You stay near Miguel all day, like glue. You eat the baked sweets together, watch TV, and read. You make dinner together when it’s time and make conversation, keeping it lighthearted.

After dinner, Miguel asks if you want to go outside with him for some fresh air. Of course, you accept. You both climb out of the penthouse and up onto the roof.

Sitting down, your legs dangle off the building as you both watch the sunset. In the distance, you can see the traffic. You both sit there in silence for a while, watching the sun.

“That was pretty,” you murmur once the sun has set.

“It was, wasn’t it?” Miguel replies.

With a smile, you nod and lean back on your hands.

“Thank you,” Miguel says, making you turn to see him. “For sticking around with me. I really appreciate it.”

“Always,” you say softly, still smiling.

Miguel copies your position, leaning back on his hands. His fingers accidentally brush yours, so he shifts his hand to avoid squeezing yours under his weight.

You both stay like that for a few minutes. The silence is nice, comforting. You think about something as you look at the sky, and it’s not the first time. You’ve thought about it multiple times throughout the day but you’re still making up your mind, wondering if it’s a good idea.

You still debate it even when you both head back inside and tell Miguel you’re washing your hands in the bathroom even though it’s a lie.

You enter your bedroom and pull out the gift bag from the closet, debating. You sigh.

It’s probably not a good idea. Maybe you can wait until next year to give him these things, or maybe on another day that’s not Father’s Day.

“Dulzura [sweetness]?” you hear Miguel’s voice. “Are you okay?”

“I - yes!” You reply, moving quickly to put the bag away. In your rush, you slam your elbow on the closet door, wincing.

“I’m coming in,” Miguel says after hearing your wince.

He steps in just as you put the gift bag inside the closet, except it falls from where you placed it. You catch it quickly, remembering that something could break.

“You hurt yourself,” Miguel says stepping closer. “Are you okay? What happened?”

You huff slowly, giving up and placing the bag on the floor carefully before rubbing your elbow.

Superhuman or not, a hit on the elbow always hurts.

“Hit my elbow,” you say, still rubbing it.

“I heard the hit, let me see,” Miguel says. “It sounded loud.”

“It’s okay, just hit it on the door.”

“Allow me?”

You nod hesitantly, your face feeling hot out of embarrassment that you hurt yourself trying to hide the bag. You show Miguel your elbow, and he hums.

“Damn, dulzura. You broke the skin somehow - hold on.”

“It’s... fine,” you say watching as he exits the room. He comes back in seconds, a first aid kit in his hand. He motions for you to take a seat on the one chair in the room, so you obey. Reluctantly.

He gets down on one knee and gets to work, opening the first aid kit.

“It’s not that bad,” you say, looking at it. There’s some blood but that’s about it. Of course, it’s still stinging like hell - somehow getting worse.

“You’re bleeding,” he says as he opens an antiseptic wipe package. “Here. Let me see your arm.”

You hold it out for him, looking at his concentrated gaze. He shocks you when he gently wraps his free hand around your forearm - his fingers warm.

He gently wipes your elbow, which makes you wince.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers gently. “Just want to clean the area.”

You nod. “I know, it’s not that bad,” you keep saying.

That makes Miguel look at your face. “Why am I surprised? You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you?” He shakes his head and turns his attention back to your elbow. He was already gentle to begin with, but somehow he’s even more now.

“I’m not stubborn,” you say after a few seconds.

“Right, and everyone at HQ thinks I’m a beam of sunlight. They call me ‘solecito’ [little sun] - maybe you’ve heard members call me that before in passing,” Miguel says sarcastically, looking at you.

With serious faces, you stare at each other for a few seconds until your lips quiver, making Miguel’s quiver, too. Unable to hold back, you laugh.

Miguel chuckles, trying to hold back from full on laughing, but in the end, Miguel O’Hara laughs.

It’s a real laugh, so full of life. It’s the kind that makes his entire chest vibrate - rich and deep.

It’s the kind you’d do anything to hear again. And again. And again.

Your laughter subsides after a few moments but grins remain on your faces as Miguel continues to tend to your wound like you’ve come back from a rough mission.

“Solecito [little sun], huh?” you ask, chuckling slightly.

“Yeah, I’m everyone’s ball of sunshine,” Miguel replies as he puts away the antiseptic wipe. “You ripped your skin - what were you even doing in such a rush?”

You look to the side. “I was - putting something away.”

Miguel turns to look at the closet, noticing the gift bag on the ground. He hardly noticed it earlier, more concerned about you than anything else when he heard you wincing.

“A gift bag?” he asks turning back to you. His mind quickly connects the dots as he tends to your cut.

“Yeah…” you simply say, staring off to the side.

“You bought something?” he asks gently while he places an adhesive bandage on you.

You turn to face him and nod. “I did, but I didn’t know how to give it to you, and then when I saw you this morning - or in the afternoon rather - I felt it wasn’t a good idea.”

Miguel hums, his gaze softening. He’s done tending your wound but his hand remains wrapped around your forearm.

“And you hit yourself trying to hide it,” he says.

“I heard you coming in.”

“I came upstairs to grab my sweatshirt and then heard you sighing. It sounded like you were disappointed, so I just wanted to make sure you were alright. I didn’t mean for you to hurt yourself,” he replies, softly.

“It’s not your fault - I was just,” you pause and wave your free arm. “I didn’t want you to see it and then, have to tell you about it. I realized it wasn’t a good idea, so.”

“I’m okay,” Miguel replies. “You didn’t have to hide it. I’m sorry you felt like you couldn’t show it to me. The first part of the day was a little hard but… the rest of the day has been better.” Miguel offers a reassuring smile. “Thanks to you. So... If you want to show me… I promise I’ll be okay.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

You nod slowly. “Alright.” You shoot your web and pull the gift bag towards you. “Um - do you want to?” you say offering the bag to him.

He nods, releasing your arm at last. He accepts the bag. After all the trouble you went though, there’s no way Miguel isn’t accepting your gift, even if it makes him feel bittersweet.

He opens the bag, still on one knee, and reaches inside. He feels different objects but he goes for something that feels round and heavy, wrapped in paper, and pulls it out. He places the bag down for a moment.

You slide off the chair and sit on the ground, joined by Miguel a second later. He opens the package gently, sensing it’s something fragile.

Pulling off all the paper, he finally reveals the item and holds it up, his gaze soft.

It’s a pottery coffee mug with traces of the color lilac, but it’s the main design that tugs the most at Miguel’s heartstrings: two bees, one smaller than the other one, and “Father’s Day” written under it.

“You remembered,” he says tenderly. “You remembered what I told you about Gaby - that she loved the color lilac and bees.”

“I did,” you answer, smiling.

Miguel smiles, his chest fluttering with happiness and pure ternura [endearment] as he stares at the coffee mug. “And you made it yourself?” He asks, knowing that you’re a hobby person, you like to try new things.

“Yes. I went to two classes this week and worked on it then. It’s not perfect, being my first time with pottery but I hope you like it regardless.”

“I love it,” Miguel says sincerely, leaving no question or doubt about it. He holds it, not wanting to let go of it. In his mind, he already knows he’ll be using this mug every day for coffee.

“I’m glad you - love it,” you say softly, happy with your idea. “There’s more though.”

“Right,” he says remembering. He places the mug down and reaches for the bag. His fingers find a small box, so he pulls that out. His curiosity grows as he realizes it’s the size of a jewelry box. He glances at you, wondering.

“Open it.”

Miguel nods, opening it gently. His eyes widen for a moment as he finds a gold bracelet, the kind that he grew up wearing as a kid.

“You…” he starts as his eyes read Gabriella’s name on the gold plate. “She had one like this, much smaller, of course. She wore it all the time, day and night. You noticed that from the photos.”

You nod. “I hope you don’t… mind,” you whisper. “I thought… it’s something you can wear sometimes, a physical reminder of her with you.”

He nods, sliding his finger over the name.

Gabriella.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “You didn’t have to - this is real gold, it must have cost a lot.”

“Don’t worry about that, please. I’m just glad you like it. I was worried - it might be too much,” you admit.

“No, no, this is - I only have one thing of hers,” Miguel confesses. “The guitar I place on the ofrenda. It’s the only physical item left, and it was pure luck that it made it, so this… Thank you.”

You can only nod, relieved that Miguel is okay with the bracelet. He takes a few moments to look at it, lost in thought, before he finally reaches for the last item. He doesn’t know what it is but it’s a flat and long item. He peels the paper carefully, revealing an art canvas.

You notice the front is facing you, so you wait for him to turn it.

When he does, his eyes soften and fill with tears.

“Dulzura,” he says. “This is - beautiful,” Miguel says, his fingers tracing the painting. A tear slides down his cheek as he stares at the image you painted of him and Gabriella.

He’s in awe with how beautiful it is, so much he needs to take a moment. He looks away from you and closes his eyes, his chest filled with emotion. He lets a breath out, swallowing the knot in his throat and looks at the painting again.

It’s him in his Spider-Man suit, face uncovered, carrying Gabriella on his shoulders. Gaby is wearing her soccer uniform, one hand in the air while she holds her soccer ball in the other one. Based on the background, they’re, here, at the penthouse.

More tears spill from Miguel’s eyes - tears you’re tempted to wipe away. You swallow the knot that’s formed in your own throat from seeing Miguel grow so emotional, and clear your throat. In a second, you pull your sweatshirt from the bed with your web and take one of the sleeves. You lift it.

“May I…?” you ask.

Miguel’s red eyes turn to you, his tears running down his damp cheeks. He doesn’t say no or yes, so you dry his cheeks with your sleeve, gently.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

Miguel blinks a few more tears, but a smile forms on his lips. “Someone on a rooftop once told me they’re happy tears.”

You smile and pull back, remembering the time Miguel did the same for you. You told him they were happy ones.

“Happy tears are good,” you say, nodding.

“Yeah, they are,” Miguel agrees, wiping his cheek. “Thank you - this is really - so beautiful. So, so… beautiful. Thank you.”

“Always,” you whisper.

Still holding the canvas, Miguel sniffles and extends his arm. He offers his pinky finger.

And of course, you accept the gesture with your own.

You give each other a pinky hug.

“Happy Father’s Day, Migs,” you whisper.

“Thank you,” Miguel answers, still smiling with his pinky finger wrapped around yours. "Thank you, dulzura [sweetness].”

A/N: I have many thoughts about certain things in this chapter, hehehe

But anyway - I made myself cry with the Father's Day part at 2am lmao

I WISH MIGUEL HAD GABY IN HIS LIFE !!!😭😭 Gonna be sad about this all day fr but anyway, I want to say thank you to the people that replied to my post from yesterday about what you'd gift Miguel for Father's Day. I did the same thing for Christmas and I really loved incorporating readers' ideas into the fic, so I figured why not do it again and they didn't disappoint!!! @lauraolar14 @only-a-universe-away @oharaslove thank you for the lovely ideas!!!!! <33333

Also one more mention for @lauraolar14 !! The hair tie scenes were based on this fan art that was inspired by a post of NC head canons of reader (I think I'm going to start calling her Dulzura from now on, lowkey) and Miguel as temporary roommates THAT I'M STILL THINKING ABOUT SGFRYEHRUH THANK YOU LAURA!! ❤️❤️ That's enough yapping from me!! I hope you guys enjoyed this one!! I cried and laughed, and hopefully you do, too (but in a good way, you know?)!!

THANK YOU!! IT MEANS SO MUCH TO ME 🫶🏼🥺<3333333 Also, I hope you guys have a great start to your week!!!

Alondra❤️

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