#nickel x reader | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gutsby · 30 days ago

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Brighter Times

Pairing: Dark!Joel x Reader

Summary: You’ve always been Joel’s favorite. Always.

Warnings: 18+. NONCON. DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. Graphic depictions of nonconsensual sexual encounters, past and present. Unprotected p-in-v. Forced breeding. Allusions to disordered eating and depression. Age gap. Lima Syndrome (i.e., a reverse of Stockholm Syndrome, wherein a captor grows an attachment to their victim). Orgasm vis-à-vis nipple stimulation. Dacryphilia (brief).

Word count: 8.3k

You made him happy.

Few in your group fully understood the importance of keeping a man like Joel Miller content, but when you didn’t do your part as expected, they sure as hell felt it.

When your wet cunt didn’t wake him up first thing in the morning, or greet him within minutes of his return from a hunt or raid, all of them became the objects of his wrath. He got angry. Impatient. Cruel. Not that those sorts of things weren’t already percolating beneath the surface of your leader’s cold and callous exterior, but when you weren’t fucking him punctually, the bad got much worse.

Which was why you didn’t resist when he called on you all hours of the day. It didn’t matter if you were mending clothes, preparing a meal, feeding the livestock, tending the garden, washing heaps and heaps of bloodstained whatever-the-fucks needed cleaning after the latest, most violent incursion the group had made—Joel took precedence. He always did. His dick was as tyrannical and repulsive as the man it served, and that man didn’t like to wait. For the sake of the group, you never let him.

“Why does she get to stop after just one bucket?”

That came from the same sniveling cunt it always did.

You were picking berries. Your knees groaned and ached from having been plastered to the forest floor a grueling hour and a half last night, getting nailed from behind. One of Joel’s men had died that day. Evidently, it was as much your problem as it was his. Now, it hurt to stand.

It also hurt you to sit, so you were currently propped up against a tree and relishing the momentary respite while the rest of your company went scouring for blueberries.

The woman who led your group—the only other person who knew about your little ‘arrangement’ with Joel, and saw you wincing as you walked to the fields that morning—shot the younger girl a look. She murmured something about it being none of her goddamn business what you did or didn’t do, just mind your own, and silently, you thanked her. You didn’t chance a smile, knowing how much worse the accusations of favoritism would get, but you squared your shoulders. You cast a look around.

And then, as if on cue, the second most dreadful voice you could’ve heard that morning shouted your name from somewhere behind you. You turned, frowning.

“Yeah, Tommy?” you yelled back.

Yards away, the younger Miller brother waved you over.

“C’mere. Joel needs you back at camp, sweetheart.”

As soft, kind, and saccharine as the words seemed reaching your ears, their sound produced the opposite effect. Every head turned to you, and several snickers ensued. Others scowled or rolled their eyes. Meanwhile, your legs felt as heavy as lead trudging that way, and your gut clenched. Why did he have to do this now?

Surely Joel could’ve picked a less conspicuous time.

Was he trying to humiliate you? Let it be known that you were his own human fleshlight, to be used on any urge?

Well, that was kind of what you were. Still, this sucked.

And you were startled again when next Tommy yelled:

“Bring Rachel with you!”

Rachel. The same bitch who berated you relentlessly for getting ‘free passes’ during work and made you feel like shit about yourself every hour of every day? That Rachel?

If Joel was asking for a threesome you’d personally kick his teeth through the roof of his mouth. What an asshole.

To your dismay, Rachel was already trotting beside you.

Smiling.

“Must be my lucky day. I get to fuck off and do noth—”

“Shut up.”

Your new companion’s grin only grew. She leaned closer.

“You think Joel’s gonna ask me to suck his big, fat—”

THWACK.

Admittedly, self-control was never your métier. You smacked her across the face and kept plodding on.

Luckily, the hit was quick, and Tommy didn’t see.

Your voice lowered to a hiss as you drew closer:

“Be my fucking guest. Fuck his geriatric brains out for all I care—it ain’t all the fun you seem to think it is. It sucks.”

And that was the truth. You detested Joel. Every other day was like a waking nightmare with just the Cordyceps shit alone, but having to fuck a creep three times your age? Go right ahead, Rachel. Take him off my hands.

You just hoped Joel would leave you out if she did.

All he’d needed you and Rachel for was mending a fence.

A fence.

Half the camp was gone for the day—either out in the fields or doing recon in a nearby town—and that had meant Joel had had some extra slots left open on perimeter duty. He’d just needed two warm bodies to carry boards over to fix a gap that was left in the thing.

And you felt fucking stupid for being singled out in front of everyone else, all of whom assumed that you and Rachel were sent back to camp to ‘service’ Joel.

The fucking twat.

You’d left as soon as the job was done. You hadn’t bothered going back to scavenge for food or have another little tête-à-tête with your best friend Rachel. You’d gone home and stayed home, where you remained all afternoon in a half-enraged stupor. Your knees ached.

Your head throbbed, too, when, after supper came and went and you hadn’t been able to bring yourself to go, your stomach was empty. You realized you hadn’t eaten since the night before, when Joel had abruptly dragged you out of the canteen for your brutal forest rendezvous. Though the idea of a meal sounded revolting to you, you knew you needed to eat. You just wished it didn’t have to end with your knees bleeding and your back smeared with cum. You rolled onto your side in bed and sighed.

And just when you contemplated closing your eyes and trying to sleep, you heard a knock on your front door.

It was quick and soft.

Probably the kind older woman from your group. She sometimes dropped food off at your place if she noticed you’d been missing from a meal. Slowly, you sat up.

“I’m fine tonight, Cleo!” you called out weakly.

Your belly ached and your head swam with nausea and pain, but right now, the last thing you needed was human interaction. Especially the courteous kind.

The knocks sounded again.

“Cleo, really, I’m alright.”

You felt a bit like shit for treating the one and only friend you’d come to make in months like this, but something in your head just wouldn’t allow for pleasantries. You stared blankly at the door from where you lay in bed.

When several seconds passed and the knocking ceased, you started to close your eyes again, softly and slowly.

And jerked them right back open again when the front door to your home went crashing back on its hinges.

The lock was snapped. The wood bent in with a kick.

You shot up in bed to see Joel Miller barrel through the threshold, arms bulging and broad and bracing themselves hard against the wood that gave way beneath his force. One bicep bled through his sleeve.

“Joel!” You instinctively flinched back where you sat.

You cast a look around yourself to make sure you hadn’t left out any contraband—whether that was magazines, books, or even food your leader didn’t want you eating outside of the dining hall—and your pulse quickened. It spiked when Joel thrust himself into your bedroom next.

You expected him to speak. He didn’t.

You expected him to claw at your body first thing. He did.

Seeing greedy hands outstretched and moving fast on your thin, pale dress, you had only to yelp a weak protest—‘Joel, please, please, no’—and swat helplessly at him. He shoved you off. Ignored your pleas. Didn’t blink twice when your face screwed up in pain at the first pull on your hair. In fact, his grip only tightened. He yanked your face up to greet his own in the dim glow of your room.

“Joel, I don’t wanna,” you whimpered like a beggar.

Joel’s hand made a fist.

“Don’t wanna what?”

Well…have sex.

You couldn’t say the words aloud, but your eyes were silently welling with tears. Your two hands pawed at his forearm and tried to pry it away, but Joel kept holding.

“Don’t wanna what?” he growled.

He glowered down at you. The man wanted a reply.

Slowly, you got your lips to work: “Don’t wanna…do it.”

You had no idea why you were afraid to say the word ‘sex’ around him, but your throat was tightening, and the moisture in your eyes had begun to slide down your face. You met Joel’s gaze with another watery, pleading look.

“By ‘it’ do you mean ‘eat’?” he scoffed. “‘Cause I don’t recall seein’ you in attendance at dinner, sweetheart.”

Your stomach involuntarily clenched.

Your grip loosened from his arm.

Joel’s only constricted. He tilted your head to keep your eyes locked on him. And then he thumbed at your skull.

“What? Cat got your tongue tonight?” he sneered.

Seconds had passed and you still hadn’t spoken.

Your throat was thick with discomfort, but somehow, you managed to muster up the courage to respond quietly:

“I just couldn’t…move much today. I’m still sore, Joel.”

And when you blinked, a new barrage of tears fell.

Frankly, you half-expected your leader to slap you across the face. No bitchin’ about a sore, achy cunt, y’hear me? Your body was made for it. But instead, the hand that ordinarily doled out punishment for whining took to stroking your cheek while the other held your hair.

Joel nearly looked sympathetic to your plight.

Then he cupped your chin. Lifted it to him.

“Was I too rough on you last night, hm?”

You nodded slowly.

For some reason, seeing him appear kind and contrite made your stomach turn worse than if he’d just hit you. You winced when his thumb stroked your bottom lip.

Then he loosened his grip from your hair and your chin and he dropped down beside you in bed. He sat back.

Joel straightened against the headboard and regarded you with an inscrutable look. You couldn’t tell if he was pitying you or preparing for the roughest fuck of his life.

Maybe both.

You sniffled and wiped at your nose.

“I-I know you like what you do to me—and how good it makes you feel—but my body ain’t made of rubber, Joel. I can’t just…go back to normal after you…you do those…”

Without your permission, your face screwed up again.

Fuck, were you about to start full-on sobbing?

No, no you were not.

You forced your gaze to the ceiling and started blinking.

And before you knew it or could attempt to get him to stop, Joel leaned in closer to you. He brushed a knuckle against your cheek, which sharply turned from his touch.

“Hey,” he started, low. You expected him to strike you.

Then the words came out even more softly than the first:

“‘S’alright. I know it hurts. I know you’re still hurtin’.”

Almost as quickly as you’d turned from him, your head cocked back. You couldn’t believe that tone of voice.

Joel had never spoken so gently to you in your life.

It wasn’t like he was incapable of it. The man had a dog, and every so often, you heard him talk sweet to the little wiry-haired mutt. C’mere, sugar, that’s it. You like those little scratches jus’ behind your ear, don’t ya, Daisy girl?

It sounded pathetic, but there had been a time when you wished Joel would speak to you that way. At least with the dignity he gave a dog—why didn’t you deserve it?

Presently, your eyes were fixed on his. You frowned.

“What? Y’think I’m some kinda monster who can’t tell when somebody’s a little wore-out? C’mere, kiddo.”

C’mere.

Well, at least you got the same treatment as Daisy.

It wasn’t regularly in your best interest to be drawing anywhere close to Joel Miller, so your body stayed planted where it was on the other side of the bed. You grimaced only a little when you felt his hand close around your wrist and tug you over to where he sat.

His shirt smelled of blood and something woodsy.

Both made you want to recoil, but Joel held tight.

“Now don’t go squirmin’ away. Hey.” He shook you once, when you’d unconsciously jerked back from his grip, and your body froze in place. You knew that hold well, and how tight and unforgiving it could get. You didn’t move.

“That’s better,” Joel hummed. “Now, on your side.”

The order made your skin bristle, but you followed it.

Joel smiled and proceeded to lie down next to you.

That big, broad, bleeding arm you’d seen before was shortly enveloping your frame, dragging your back to press up against his front, and then snaking around your waist. Joel held you to him so that his face could rest comfortably behind your shoulder. You tensed up.

This was how it started.

Joel behind you, holding you tight so that you couldn’t escape. In no time at all, he’d be unzipping the fly on his jeans, unbuckling his belt, and then pressing his palm flat across the side of your face, telling you to stay still, or I’ll make sure you regret it. You didn’t often get a warning before Joel pushed inside. There had never once been a time when he’d asked if it would be OK to do it.

You didn’t expect tonight to be any different.

In an effort to ease his passage and save yourself any more pain than was absolutely necessary, you closed your eyes and tried to think about pleasanter things.

Like plush, stubbled lips brushing up the column of your neck. Hands kneading the flesh around your hips in a comforting way. Eyes trailing lightly—appreciatively—over your body as you’d always thought a lover might do.

It wasn’t like you were craving romance, per se. Hell, the concept of it half-scared you to death, with the thought of someone else touching your body and cherishing it and not wanting to use it merely as a means to an end seemed like something out of a fairytale book at this point in your life. You’d accepted that love would never touch you personally; these fantasies that played on repeat in your mind were little more than a vestige of a world no longer in existence. There was nothing wrong indulging when faced with a thing as awful and raw as—

“Hey.”

Joel shook you again.

Your chin jerked back to him, and you blinked.

“Y-Yeah?”

Over your shoulder, Joel stared back at you.

“You need a minute?”

You blinked again. You couldn’t hope to control the look of pure bewilderment that was painting your expression.

“What?”

“Do you…need a minute? Y’know, to stop the…hurtin’.”

Joel had never stopped to consider your pain in all the years you’d known him. Not on a raid, not out in the fields, not on a ‘job’ you both knew you hated, like cramming his dick in your mouth or any other place he deemed appropriate. He’d regarded your feelings as something ancillary, always. Even as you’d sobbed in his arms before, his choices invariably, inevitably defaulted to him. Without fail. Why he was acting any differently now was beyond you. You sat back, fully dumbstruck.

“What?” you asked him again.

Behind you, Joel just smiled.

He trailed his touch up the side of your body as if it were the most normal thing to do in the world, and he stopped when it reached the crook of your neck. He brushed his knuckles against your pulse point, then stroked it more.

“Tell me where it hurts.”

Your mouth was dry. Somehow, you managed to indicate with your fingers and a murmur that it hurt right…here.

Just below where his own hand had strayed, there was a bite mark on your collar bone where Joel had sank his teeth into flesh the night before. The wound was bright red and throbbing, reminding you every hour how wholly he controlled your body. Your frock bared the sight for everyone in camp to see, including the man himself.

Joel leaned down and kissed it.

Where canines had once punctured skin and pulled back to flash you a smug, conceited grin, beaming at the way they had marked you up, Joel’s lips only soothed it now.

He caressed the little lesions on your skin and drew back.

“Where else?” he asked.

Still, your mind was too discombobulated to form a single coherent sentence, so you pointed instead.

With a slow, shaky hand, you gestured to your legs.

Joel peered down after it, down the mattress.

“Banged your knees up pretty bad, huh?”

“Y-Yes.”

In your mind, you sounded pathetic. Yes, these poor little legs had to hold yourself up in doggystyle last night after Joel had decided to fuck a day’s worth of frustration into your cunt. That was the norm.

And this was where Joel would slide down the bed to grip your thighs, hold them tightly, and press his lips to all the cuts and bruises on your kneecaps, apparently.

You watched it all unfold with a harrowing sense of awe.

He’d never touched you there. He’d never kissed you there. Joel Miller had never so much as held your hand unless it had been to drag you someplace dark and isolated, and now he was petting your injured legs?

Out of habit, you jerked back from that touch.

You clambered quickly, gracelessly up the bed into a kind of half-sitting position, and with your eyes wide and fixed on his, you managed the first words in what felt like ages:

“What are you doing, Joel?”

The man who’d just kissed your neck and your kneecaps planted a hand on the bed. He slid closer to you, no doubt seeing a fear seize your features as he did.

He placed that palm on your thigh. He squeezed it lightly.

“I’m tryin’ to be nice. Helpful an’ all that.”

You didn’t know what that meant.

You were so stunned by his words and actions that you scarcely even felt it yourself when fingers tapped skin.

Joel drummed a gentle beat, posing a new question.

“Where else does it hurt?”

“It…it…”

You shook your head. Blinked through your present daze.

“Show me where it hurts. Use your hands,” Joel said.

So you did.

Gingerly, wordlessly, you drew your hand to your tummy. You placed a palm over your middle and felt pretty silly.

It hurts inside.

You didn’t give me a chance to prepare last night, and now every inch where you invaded feels like it’s on fire.

You wished you had the strength to tell him it hurt. That you hated him for it and wished he were dead most days. Instead, when Joel placed his hand over yours and searched your eyes with a soft, tender look in his, you felt tears spring up again. You shook your head, wincing.

“It hurt here, too?” Joel nearly whispered.

Now you nodded your head. Yes, it hurts.

And Joel stroked it gently. Delicately.

He lowered his scarred, stubbled face to yours, and in yet another act that would leave you shocked for hours, he kissed your cheek. He continued to rub your stomach.

Meanwhile, it felt like your gut plummeted to the floor.

Done jumping away for the time being, though, you tilted your head to him. You opened your mouth to either speak or suck in a breath, and suddenly that, too, was invaded by his mouth. Joel kissed you on the lips.

It was so soft you didn’t think to stop him.

The man had forced your mouth to his plenty of times before, but never had it felt like this—featherlight, gentle.

The kiss was as calming as it was disconcerting. Joel’s lips worked expertly over your own, which were limp and unmoving, and a hand cupped your cheek. You didn’t close your eyes, even when his tongue traced the seam of your lips. This was how the lovers in your dreams always kissed. But Joel was no lover; this was odd.

“Wanna lay back?” he asked after pulling away.

You didn’t. But you did it anyway.

With Joel following your descent to the bed, slotting overtop your body in the fashion of a man about to mount, you thought surely it would happen now.

He would fuck you, whether you liked it or not.

Those kisses had been but a sickening prelude to something much worse, something more violent than you could likely even imagine. You closed your eyes.

Joel slid between your legs.

He pressed his hips to yours.

His breaths fanned over your face in a familiar and menacing way, and his expression was probably cruel.

He kissed you again.

This time, you couldn’t help but jump. He was using tongue, gently. Working the muscle in your mouth like he wanted you to enjoy the feel and savor the taste of him.

You’d been fucked against your will many times. You had no idea how to tongue-kiss someone and make it good.

You whimpered into Joel’s mouth, and as if sensing your thoughts, he drew back. He peered down, smiling faintly.

“Is this OK?”

A beat.

“I— I guess.”

Joel fully grinned at that, teeth gleaming in the lamplight. He pecked your lips again, softly, and you could feel a chuckle rumble through his chest as he did.

“You are too precious, y’know that?” he said.

You sat in silence while he leaned back to lift the hem of your dress. Again, you thought he would be undoing his belt and the zip on his jeans and then shoving his cock inside you in the next moment. That was usually how it went. But for what felt like the hundredth time that night, you were surprised to find that he wasn’t pursuing that route at all. He was simply raising your dress above your belly so that he could rub the tender skin that was there.

He pressed a palm to your tummy, and it had an alarmingly calming, warming effect. Your muscles eased under his touch. Though your chest rose and fell in quick, uneven breaths at the prospect of what was to come next, your lower half was tranquil. The pain ebbed away.

Your gaze flickered to Joel’s face, and you found he was already watching you intently. He tipped his chin down.

“Feel any better?”

You waited. You watched him back.

After a second, you nodded your head.

And that wasn’t a lie. His hand smoothing circles over your stomach had made the ache from last night drain out of you, it seemed. You couldn’t believe it. Slowly, a pleased smile worked its way onto Joel’s face, and he was rubbing circles even gentler than he had before. He kissed your forehead, and something stirred inside you.

You ignored it.

You blinked, and suddenly, Joel was lifting your hemline higher with his other hand. Up your belly, your ribs, and—

“Hey.” That came out as more of a squeak than a plea.

Joel’s smile didn’t flinch. He dragged the fabric past your chest, baring your breasts to the open air, and strangely, his gaze never left your face. You shot a look down in embarrassment, wanting him to pull it back into place, but you didn’t dare take hold of the hem yourself. You just sat back in muted discomfort, wanting to move.

“‘S’okay. They’re just more body parts, kiddo. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with showin’ ‘em off when I’m here.”

They were nothing he hadn’t seen before, either.

You squirmed in place and pursed your lips.

And, though you wanted his gentle ministrations on your stomach to continue, this kind of development made you antsy. Achy. You couldn’t quite explain the medley of strange emotions that came from being bare around a man like Joel, in a context like this, but you were almost positive you didn’t like it. You peered up at him, pleading.

“What’s the problem? I just wanna help,” Joel replied.

And, before you could shoot another look his way or turn from him, curling away, he did something unexpected.

He leaned down and, just like he’d done with his mouth working yours, he pressed a kiss to one of your breasts.

He didn’t budge, even when you did.

Even when you jumped—plainly frightened of that new, wet feeling latching onto your nipple—Joel rooted himself in place and didn’t stray an inch from where he was. He sucked on that stiff, hardened peak with all the assuredness he had mowing down herds and herds of infected in the woods outside your community, and it didn’t seem to register at all with him that you were uncomfortable. He simply licked and sucked and kissed.

The ache in your belly got bigger, but not with any pain.

Joel sucked your nipple into your mouth, and you felt it—trembling pleasure. The kind you fantasized about when the man was otherwise draining the sensation from your body with every brutal stab of his hips. At last, it was a thing for you to feel, and not just dream about. The shock hit so hard you had to grip something behind you.

Your pillow.

That was fine.

You sucked in a breath that sounded a bit more like a gasp than a normal inhale, and you clasped on harder.

“Joel,” you mewled.

Joel lifted his head.

“What’s wrong? Did that hurt?”

Your wide eyes met him, bewildered.

“I…”

You swallowed, so wholly unacquainted with the feeling you didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t painful, just a bit…

“Strange, huh?” Joel grinned.

The hand that rubbed your stomach moved to your side to tickle it lightly. You jerked again, and the grin grew.

His mouth lowered back to your breasts—the other one, now—and his eyes never left yours once while he did. He kissed your nipple like he’d done to the first. You saw his tongue dart out past cracked lips, under a sea of mostly grey facial hairs, and he licked that hardened nub. He smeared saliva all over the flushed little thing, and you should’ve been disgusted by how much spit spread down your skin, but you couldn’t quite bring yourself to hate it. The feelings his actions roused were pleasurable.

You blinked and let out a ragged breath.

You drew another into your lungs, and your chest shook.

Joel couldn’t have looked more enamored if he tried.

“Does that make the hurt go away? Make you feel a little…warm and tingly inside?” he asked you delicately.

“Feels…yeah.” You’d lost the power to think again.

You’d lost the powers of basic human cognition, and all you wanted was for his lips and tongue to caress your nipples. This man that you hated made you feel something good. You didn’t have words for it.

“Has anyone ever done this to you before?”

Right as he asked it, Joel returned to where he’d been and dragged his mouth over one peak. He sucked it in between his lips, then released it with a loud, wet pop.

You couldn’t help it; you whimpered.

You let out a shrill, soft whine like this was the single best thing you’d ever felt, and Joel Miller was the cause of it.

He did it again.

And again.

And he reached up to tweak your other nipple between his forefinger and thumb at the same time, and that was when you felt it: a hot coil. A tightening knot. You sighed.

Your chin jerked down to your chest to see the chaos for yourself, and you found Joel grinning back up at you.

“Has anyone ever done this to you?” he reiterated.

“No.”

You shook your head. You wanted more.

You needed more of his mouth, more of this feeling, and you hated feeling beholden to anyone else, but a pleasure like this felt like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to a girl like you, and you had no idea when the next time Joel would ever be this nice, so you asked.

“Can— can you do it again?”

Joel obliged you without another word.

He took sweet, pebbled flesh between his teeth and tugged it. Pinched your nipple with his fingers and twisted. Licked you repeatedly, drenched you with his spit, and somehow, you loved every filthy second of it.

You ground your heels into the bed. The own noises bubbling out of your throat were growing louder, and Joel’s suckling sounds, too, were picking up volume as he worked his mouth quicker and harder and greedier than he had before. The wrinkles and the greys on his face showed his age with every breath he took—made this whole encounter feel that much more depraved—but how he took you between his lips made him seem years younger. Ebullient and spry and keen in how he did it.

That old, strange something in your tummy was growing. You were hardly aware of what it meant, much less able to control how it spread. It swelled inside you, and all you knew was that you wanted it to keep billowing, keep rising, keep numbing the pain inside you, and save you from the harsh, cruel reality of the hand you’d been dealt in sex to date. You wanted to get to feel good, for once.

Joel drew your nipple in his mouth one last time for a thick, wet brush from the tip of his tongue, and that was when the knot in your stomach snapped. You cried out loud, eyes almost crossing from the sheer pleasure that was coursing through your body and—shit, was this what Joel got to feel every time he pushed himself in you?—your toes curled. Your eyes closed. Your back promptly arched off the bed, pushing your chest even more into him, and the man clearly didn’t mind in the slightest. He continued to lap at your taut, sensitive flesh while he pinched at the other, and something like a groan thrummed through his chest. You could feel it.

When your eyes opened again, they landed on his face.

Joel’s was upturned, addressing you with a beaming sort of look while he hovered no more than an inch or so over your breasts and panted like he’d just sprinted a mile.

“Did you just…orgasm?” he asked, half-breathless.

You weren’t totally sure what that was—had never experienced one yourself, so you couldn’t say with certainty if that was what it had been. You stared back.

“I don’t know.”

You swallowed, hoping that wouldn’t make him angry.

On the contrary, Joel swept you into his arms a moment later. He held you tight to his chest, your breasts pressing to his white, soiled shirt and briefly commingling with the blood spattered there.

You tensed out of habit. Then you eased just a bit.

He was hugging you. Crawling up your body in bed and laying you back in the sheets, where you’d so kindly just showed a climax Joel almost certainly wasn’t expecting.

He kissed your neck. Your cheeks. Your lips. He overcrowded your space, but your head was so busy with all the bright, fuzzy feelings of release that you didn’t have the sense to notice. Dimly, you heard the clink of a belt, but in your near-anoetic state, it didn’t fully register.

That was what it was supposed to feel like.

No crying, no begging, no pleading for your life.

Just bliss, swollen to the limit and flooding your system.

You wanted to do it again. Maybe not with Joel, but just a man who put your pleasure first. The one you always pictured in your fantasies could be a reality, someday. He’d probably be a little closer to you in age, maybe learning these things for the first time like you. You could experience it together; you wouldn’t have to remain the way you were under Joel’s thumb if you just branched out a bit. Talked to people who weren’t him. The sudden influx of dopamine and oxytocin had your head humming with new ideas, and you knew it was likely too soon to start planning a way away from Joel, but just maybe—

“That was the best thing I ever seen,” he said presently.

You snapped back into the moment and saw Joel hovering over your frame: hips bracketed by your legs and arms bracing themselves on either side of your head on the pillow. His jeans and boxers were shoved down his thighs, just far enough to let his cock spring free of its confines, and currently, the round, leaking head of the thing was gliding up and down your slit. You shuddered.

“What— what was the best thing?” You needed to stall.

Joel brightened above you, like he was charmed by the tone of voice you’d used. He leaned in and kissed you.

You tried not to wince. You tried to look positive.

“You. Cummin’ from just my tongue and fingers on your nipples. Sexiest sight I seen. I knew you’d come around.”

Joel grabbed the base of his dick and started lowering his hips to draw closer to your entrance. He bumped the ring of muscles with the tip, and you were stunned to hear a weak, but audible squelch from where he met you.

You couldn’t see it now, but you could feel the insides of your legs soaked through with your arousal. It dripped like nectar from your cunt and gave Joel the perfect opportunity to slick himself up with your wetness.

The old man rolled his hips and nudged you again.

“It’s gonna be so much better from now on,” he went on. “Tommy was right—a little sweet talkin’, nipple tweakin’ before a man gets to stick it to his woman and she’ll make it real easy by gettin’ wet. Even better if she cums.”

Your stomach turned at those words: his woman.

You didn’t want to do this with Joel again, at least not in the way he’d just made you climax. That felt intimate, and completely wrong for the dynamic you two had developed. As you slowly made the descent from replete pleasure to dread, you sensed something extra warm, leaking beads of precum at your still-wet entrance.

Joel planted an arm even closer beside you and nudged your nose with his own. His eyes were glossy and wide.

You knew a good man wouldn’t be found behind them.

He sank the first inch of his cock within the embrace of your cunt, and the face above you twisted. Yours did, too.

His was out of pleasure. Yours was more like a life-sized, grating kind of agony for which you could not find a name. Your body ached with it, though you didn’t dare to show it on your face. You sighed instead. You bit your lip.

And all the while, Joel was wedging his impossibly hard member inside you. Making way by force, but in a much less painful way than he had before. You were wet enough to give him a tolerably smooth entrance.

He filled every ridge and crevice of your most intimate place, and he heaved a groan at the gratifying sensation.

Joel always enjoyed sex with you.

Even at his lowest, with his eyes seeing nothing but red and likely viewing you as more sentient hole than human being, he always preferred the space between to your legs to anyplace else. As far as you knew, he had sex with no one else but you. Sometimes, you wondered why.

But tonight, you couldn’t think for long when the tip of Joel’s cock kissed the edge of your cervix. For the first time in your life, it didn’t hurt, and in fact felt pretty nice. You made a face to mask the pleasure, and his length buried itself even deeper. Joel groaned as you whined.

“That feels good, don’t it?” he murmured. His hips increased their pace, and suddenly, his thrusts were shaking you. Your bed frame clanged against the wall.

Out of sheer necessity, you had to wrap your arms around the back of Joel’s neck as he fucked you. You felt the weight of his balls slap your ass with every thrust he delivered, and your heels dug hard into his lower back. Slick sounds and stifled whines were all you could hear for several seconds, save for Joel’s breathing, which was loud and shallow. You detected a trace of bourbon on it.

“That feels nice, havin’ your old man balls deep in this sweet, perfect cunt, huh? Tell me,” he said, tone dark.

You nodded once.

Your eyes pricked with moisture again, and this time, you couldn’t tell with any degree of certainty which emotion it stemmed from. You felt vulnerable. Overwhelmed. Like you weren’t in control of yourself—which, physically, you weren’t—and you couldn’t decide what words or sounds would come from you next. You held onto Joel tighter.

His cock plunged in and out at a dizzying pace. He didn’t slow when he saw your tears, but they did beckon him in.

Joel cupped your face in a sly, patronizing way. Smiling.

“You’re scared to feel good. That’s what’s holdin’ ya back,” he said gently, as if it was the most obvious thing.

His thumb brushed your cheek just as he bottomed out, and your body convulsed. You cried some more, wanting to push him out completely, but the feeling was oddly stimulating, too. Joel went on to catch every tear that crawled down your face, and he wiped each one away. He got a half-crazed look in his eye, and he smiled again.

Then he stuck his thumb in his mouth and sucked.

He was fucking you, and he was tasting your tears.

You’d never seen anything more disturbing in your life but were forced to hide your aversion as Joel continued.

“Pussy’s all wet. Soakin’ me just like these pretty little tears. That must mean she likes me, darlin’. She likes it.”

“But I—” you started, breath catching on a particularly hard thrust. “—I’m still hurtin’. You— you’re hurtin’ me.”

Perhaps an appeal to his pathos would slow him down. Get him to stop, or at least quit eating your fucking tears.

Joel’s tongue would lick you occasionally when a fresh stream trickled down. He did it again, even while you writhed in pain. He grabbed your face, and he groaned when your walls clenched involuntarily around his length.

“It’s all— all in your head, honey. You want this. Your cunt wouldn’t be half as soaked as it is, and you wouldn’t be cryin’ with pleasure if you didn’t need it as badly as me. You’re just…scared to feel good, is all it is. Let go of that.”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing—and were equally dismayed to find that your wet, achy cunt was making noises beneath Joel’s thrusts so obscene you would’ve sobbed harder to know it was you who was making them. Slowly, sluggishly you pushed at his chest.

“I ain’t— ain’t scared, Joel. I don’t like this,” you wailed.

“Sure you are. You feel guilty about how good this feels.”

Well, maybe there was some truth to—

“No.” You shook your head. “I-I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I don—”

“Is that why you sent her over for me, sweetheart?”

You froze. Joel’s thrusts slowed down a little.

What was he talking about? Who was ‘she’?

As if reading your mind, Joel went on.

“Rachel. You sent her, didn’t you?”

You had no fucking clue what he was talking about. All you knew was that you loathed the girl and were trying your hardest not to succumb to the pleasure that was building with every second. Somehow, Joel’s gentler strokes made you throb and ache in the best way.

Your gaze flitted down to see his hips meeting yours relentlessly—cock plunging in and out at a grating rhythm and making a mess of your shared fluids. Sweat coated your skin; the bed continued to creak and groan.

“R-Rachel?” you whimpered back.

Joel’s gaze narrowed at you.

“Don’t act naïve, honey.”

Suddenly, he was stopping completely to push your legs over his shoulders. Your limbs were limp and gave no resistance. Then he resumed his soft, steady thrusts.

Your pussy squeezed him even tighter at this angle, and Joel swore under his breath. You whined at feeling it, too.

“After you two helped…fix that fence,” he grunted out, eyes focusing on yours. They were markedly more stern. “I was back home tendin’ to my arm. Rachel stopped by.”

You glanced to Joel’s bicep, which was bulging and still staining the sleeve of his shirt through the fabric. The red patch seemed to grow darker with every push of his hips, but maybe you were imagining things. Trying to distract yourself from the eyes that were boring into your skull.

“She must’ve heard I got hurt last night. Or somebody told her,” Joel went on, unfazed. His cock kept drilling, rendering you immobile on the bed underneath him. “Either way, she made it real clear…real fuckin’ quick that my injury wasn’t the only thing that brought her there.”

Gradually, heat rose to your cheeks.

No way had Rachel done what you thought she did. What you told her sucked, and wasn’t worth any of her time.

“She seemed to think you were gettin’—” Joel paused to drive his cock in hard, hitting your sweet spot as he did. “—preferential treatment of some kind, on account of what you do for me. She wanted the same treatment.”

Now your face was on fire.

That fucking idiot.

“W-What did you say?” you asked weakly. It wasn’t even your curiosity that was piqued—it was genuine fear for what Joel might’ve done had he been of a mind to be offended by her offer. What he was liable to do if he thought you were behind it. You swallowed hard and had no choice but to ignore the growing coil in your stomach.

“I said what any man in my position would’ve told her,” Joel sneered, and your feelings of trepidation only rose.

Against your will, the pleasure in your lower half stretched commensurate with your panic, and you found yourself trembling, teeth grinding together, and eyes itching to roll back in bliss and raw, unmitigated dread.

You weren’t sure if this was preparation to cum or to cry. By the look on Joel’s face, it appeared he craved both.

He gripped your chin in one hand and brought his face right down to yours. His hips didn’t withdraw again; he wedged his cock in deeper and deeper, until it felt as if something were ready to snap, and you cried out, shrill.

“Joel, please.”

“Wanna know what I said?”

“Y-Yes. And stop. Please, no deeper.”

His tip was hitting your cervix repeatedly. His knees were bracing themselves hard against the bed, like he couldn’t get far enough inside your soft, lithe body and the mewling sounds you made were invitations to go further.

They weren’t.

He knew they weren’t.

Still, Joel’s grin was wide as he pinched your face in his hand and grit his teeth like he was proud. Listen to me.

“I told Rachel to get fucked, that’s what,” he snarled. “But not by me. I only fuck women I’m in love with.”

Out of all the things he could’ve said, that was the worst.

Your face fell where he held it, and your eyes widened.

You wanted to shake your head, but his grip was tight.

“Joel.” At the same time, fear flooded you.

Nothing made sense like it should’ve. Nothing felt right, and that was ignoring the fact that you were being forced to fuck a man you so thoroughly despised.

Joel was watching your expressions. Waiting for you to process what he’d said, and when he saw that you had, he assumed an even more brutal pace with his thrusts. He carved at your insides with his cock, pleased as ever.

“Didn’t even…realize it until she approached me today,” he confessed, chuckling when he felt your walls clench—and at the same time, more tears welled up beneath him.

You were going to cry again, except now you were also on the brink of climax. Split down his cock and whining.

“You were made for me, sweetheart. No one’s ever…ever gonna touch what’s mine or get between me and you.”

Those words made you want to die.

Tears were spilling out, and you sobbed.

“You— you don’t mean that, Joel,” you cried.

“But I do, baby,” Joel teased. He pushed your legs even higher when he leaned down to kiss you, and you didn’t miss the way he licked at your tear-streaked skin after. He was sick. Repulsive. Shameless in what he was doing. “If someone like Rachel thinks she can drive a wedge between us, who’s to say there ain’t others who feel the same? Folks need to see who you fuckin’ belong to.”

With that, the man seemed to confirm your worst fear.

His gaze locked on yours, and he thumbed at your cheek one last time. Then he slid his touch down your body, to find your clit, and started rubbing mercilessly. Your hips bucked under his touch, throat working and begging him, hoarsely, stop touching me there, I don’t like it.

In truth, that place was about to send you over the edge. You didn’t like it; you loved it. You hated that you relished every second stretched over Joel’s length and how good it made you feel. You hated him. You hated him so much.

“I love you, honey,” Joel panted, lips grazing over yours.

One more push of his hips and your ankles were almost hovering by your ears. He had you folded in half for him.

And his circles on your clit weren’t stopping anytime soon. He jerked himself in and out of you, again and again, a little sloppier now with how much focus he was placing on that tiny, pulsing bud. Your stomach clenched.

Your walls bore down, and it was clear you didn’t have a say in the matter: you were tumbling toward climax again whether you liked it or not. Your whines turned to shrieks.

“I— I-I don’t love you, Joel,” you said through your teeth. “I fucking hate you. You’ll never mean…anything to me.”

Frankly, you didn’t give a single fuck whether he beat you for it later. He was damn near making you say it.

And rather than bristle with rage, Joel only beamed.

“You mean it, baby?”

Fucking psychopath.

You would’ve reached up and clawed at his face in desperation had your own not been cupped in his hand next. Gently and affectionately, he drew it closer to him.

You mean it?

“We’ll see how you feel when you’re carrying my child.”

Your eyes went wide. Joel’s grin grew bigger.

No.

No, no, no, no, NO.

You weren’t thinking. You reared back and finally landed that taut, sharp blow across his face. The man didn’t flinch, even as you reached out again and raked your nails into his cheek—you fucking sick, sick bastard.

His skin bled. His lip split from where you’d hit him.

All the while, he kept that smile stretched wide.

He seemed to revel in your hatred, leaning in to tell you again: ‘Folks need to see who you fuckin’ belong to, hon.’

“And now they will,” he went on, tone taunting and low.

Joel made sure you felt him from then on. Ensured he shouldn’t budge a single inch and you wouldn’t either. Even as you grit your teeth, cursed him up and down, kept fighting tears—and losing—he wasn’t letting you off.

He would be getting you off, though.

With one more kiss to your neck and a quick series of circuits with his thumb, you were coming apart beneath him. You couldn’t help it. Every last nerve-ending in your body was shot, and you couldn’t breathe without sobbing through tears of misery and pleasure.

Like most every other moment you’d endured that night, your climax was against your will. Your walls pulsed and spasmed, and the fast circles on your clit nearly sent your vision blurring from how indescribably good it felt. All the while, inside, you were cursing Joel’s name and hating him more than you ever had before. Your orgasm triggered his own, and you wished you’d never been born—if this was how your life was to be spent, with the spray of a pervert’s seed painting your walls every night until you gave him a child, well…you would rather be dead.

Better yet, he should be dead.

The idea took root in your mind the second Joel had emptied the last spurt of warmth inside you and drew back with a crooked, sleepy grin. When he kissed you, and licked up the side of your face to collect whatever tears had trickled down since your orgasm had hit, the thought was cemented in your mind. Tired as you were yourself, you couldn’t show this on your face or betray a shred more of your outright contempt, or determination, than you were feeling right now. You let him kiss you. Let him lick you wherever he pleased, tell you he loved you and knew you would love him too, one day, as much as you would love his baby. His cock rutted deeper inside you with a low and sickening squelch, and by the time he’d rolled away, you’d made it a promise to yourself.

Whether it was today, tomorrow, or ten years from now—no matter how long it would take—Joel Miller was dead.

And that made you happy.

#AWOOOOOOOOOOOGA #SICK FREAK ROLL CALL IDK 🤚🤚🤚🤚🤚🤚#IF I HAD A NICKEL FOR EVERY TIME I WROTE A FORCED BR**DING FIC I’D HAVE TWO NICKELS #WHICH ISN’T A LOT BUT IT’S WEIRD THAT IT HAPPENED TWICE #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller tlou #the last of us fic

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fatalhoon · 2 months ago

Text

caught in my web ! - sjy

spiderman!jake x best friend!reader

wc ~6k

cw fluff!! swearing, one cum joke LOL, jake is a big nervous dork and reader is a little dumb lmaoo, i think that’s all!

an i wrote this and posted it on my sideblog for a different fandom but i thought it was cute so i wanted to redo it for jake a post it here too :>

—🕷️🕸️🕷️—

when he first discovered that such a simple and seemingly harmless spider bite had such irreversible effects on him, jake, to put it bluntly, was petrified.

even from the moment the spider bit him, for all he knew he could soon be literally petrified by the way the bite was making his arm feel weird already, and though he can’t say he’s necessarily well versed in arachnids, that was not a spider he’d ever seen before.

he knew most likely it was just paranoia, but his brain was swirling with worst case scenarios.

nonetheless, it was very late at night and a college student such as himself did not have the money nor the means for an emergency room visit, so he decided to attempt to sleep it off, and if it seemed to be worse in the morning he’d see what he could do.

well, maybe that’s an oversimplification of events.

he’d called you, practically hyperventilating and saying his goodbyes, scaring you shitless as well for a good minute before you’d finally pried out of him what had happened.

luckily, entomology was something you were actually studying, and you had enough knowledge of various spiders and the effects of certain venom that when you arrived at his apartment (for his own peace of mind and yours) you were able to calm him enough to the point that planning his own funeral was no longer at the forefront of his mind.

with the strange spider safely captured in a small jar (as afraid as he was, he couldn’t bring himself to kill it) he felt a little better even just from your calming presence.

(“jake, why did you put a piece of cheese in there?” “i wanted to be hospitable.” “..cheese.” “i don’t know what spiders eat!”)

you spent the night on his couch that night as well (he hadn’t asked, but you knew if you left he might start typing up a will) so you were able to keep an eye on him.

the next morning jake wakes up feeling fine, albeit a bit groggy. he flops out of bed, and he rubs the sleep from his eyes as he wanders across the hall to the bathroom.

grabbing his glasses and sliding them on, he looks down at the spot on his arm that he’d been scratching at to check it’s status.

but its.. blurry?

he blinks a few times to focus his vision, but nothing changes.

its not until his hand pushes his glasses up to rub at his face and he gets a view without a lens that he realizes that its actually his glasses that are the issue. he moves them out of the way, and to his shock he can see completely clearly without them.

he lifts them up to sit on his head, looking at himself in the mirror, absolutely dumbfounded.

“what.. the fuck?”

“jake?”

he jumps, banging his knee on the counter.

“jesus! sorry,” you chuckle, hands up. “not a spider!”

“har har,” jake mocks, massaging his leg, a cute pout on his face.

you step into the bathroom, reaching up to adjust his glasses that had fallen from the crown of his head to the tip of his nose. he squints, rubbing at his temple.

“you.. okay?” you venture, watching him blink hard a few times.

“yeah! uh-“ more blinks, eyes wide- “i’m good.” a fake smile. its your turn to squint, not quite believing him.

you see him instinctively clenching his fist, shaking out his arm a little. you grab it and drag him forward a little to examine the splotch on his forearm.

“mm.” you hum. you brush your fingers along the bump, making a shiver roll up jake’s spine. he watches you over the rim of his glasses.

“its a little red, but it looks okay. i don’t think it was poisonous.”

“great! uh- cool, that’s good news,” jake bumbles, an awkward smile on his face.

he stares at you.

you stare at him.

your face is blurry.

he adjusts his glasses.

“right..”

he gulps.

“well. i have a lecture soon, so i should get going.” you give his arm a little pat and release it from your fingers. he nods, scratching at it absentmindedly again.

“still on for movie night later?”

jake answers without thinking through it.

“of course.” shit.

you grin at him. “great.” shit shit shit.

but the twinkle in your eyes and the way your fingers ruffle through his messy hair makes his heart flutter less with anxiety and more with something.. warmer.

you turn and round the hallway corner and jake lets out a tense breath he didn’t know he was holding. he knocks into a small table from his lack of clear sight as he follows you, and swiftly blames it on lack of sleep when you quirk a brow at him.

a minute later you’ve gathered your things from the living room, the bottled spider included to take to your class to be studied, and give him a wave as you walk out his front door.

“see you tonight, spider man.”

jake takes off his glasses once the door is closed behind you, sighing heavily and rubbing a hand down the side of his face. he swipes his thumb across his forearm, your touch lingering in his mind.

“spider man.” he scoffs, but he can’t help the fond smile that turns up his lips.

—🕷️🕸️🕷️—

“where are your glasses?”

“i got contacts.” jake lies through his teeth.

“today?” you question incredulously.

“… yeah.”

you clearly don’t believe him, if the way your brow furrows is anything to go by. you’d seen him just a few hours ago.

“is it because i always call you a nerd? you know i mean that affectionately, right?” jake hears the hint of guilt in your voice and panics.

“no! yeah i uh, i do- i just-“ he trails off. he isn’t sure where else to go with this. you catch the awkwardness, watching as he scratches the back of his neck, and decide to let it go before he starts sweating.

“well, if you can’t see the screen don’t ask me what happened,” you joke, lightening the mood to jake’s relief. you set down the snacks you brought and plop down on the couch, propping your feet on the coffee table, remote in hand.

jake relaxes in his spot next to you, ripping open a bag of chips. “you’d probably be asleep even if i did.” you roll your eyes and smack his arm. jake lets out a laugh.

fourty five minutes later, jake does have to ask a question about the movie you’re watching (but not because he couldn’t see, he’s just been daydreaming for most of it.)

and lo and behold, you are asleep, so he’s left to wonder.

jake starts to reach for his soda on the table in front of him, but you, wrapped around his right arm and sleeping comfortably, tighten your grip when you feel him start to move.

he moves just the left side of his body forward, ever so slowly, wiggling his fingers as he strains to grab his drink without disturbing you.

but suddenly, something knocks into the can, denting the side and sending it falling over with a tinny clank against the wood. liquid spills from the opening and dribbles over the side and onto the floor.

“how the-“

“shhh,”

he freezes, looking down at you. you pull him back again, nuzzling your face into his shoulder. your cheek presses up against his sleeve, smushing up your face and jakes’s heart almost explodes. he reaches up gently, pushing a tuft of hair away from your face, and you hum happily.

jake thinks for a second that maybe a stain on his carpet is worth it if he can stay like this forever.

something stuck to his wrist catches his attention.

its a strand of web.

jake yelps before he can catch himself, frantically flicking his arm to detach it and startles you fully awake in the process. you let out a similar yelp in practically the same octave as his was, jumping up and clutching tighter onto his bicep.

“what!! what happened?” you squeak.

he doesn’t answer, just continues his task of brushing off every square inch of his body to rid himself of any potential dangers. when he deems himself safe, he looks over at you, and is met with crossed arms and a disgruntled look.

“sorry! sorry,” jake huffs apologetically. he clears his throat, his face flushing red from embarrassment as he explains, “spider web.”

you chuckle incredulously, rubbing your eyes and letting out a yawn. “spider web,” you giggle through a playful smirk. you stand, stretching your limbs, and hobble in the direction the bathroom.

“try not to die out here without me, alright?” you quip as turn the corner.

jake groans. he gets up himself to grab a towel from the kitchen, coming back to crouch down and sop up the mess still dripping from the table.

he picks up the can and tries to set it back on the table top, but it sticks to his hand. even when he uncurls all five fingers from it, its still stuck snugly to his palm. he uses his other hand to grab it and pry it away, and it detaches with a sticky snap, leaving multiple strands of web connecting his skin to the tin.

“jesus christ,” he gripes, watching the web strands flutter under his breath.

“oh, there really was a spider web,” it’s jake’s turn to startle, jumping a bit as he sees you crouched down right beside him, observing the wiggly webs.

jake gives you an indignant look, one that reads ‘did you think i was lying?’

“honestly i just though you were being paranoid.” jake rolls his eyes, nudging you with his shoulder.

“sorry! not my fault you’re a scaredy cat!”

“i am not!” he defends, pressing the towel further down into the carpet plush.

you glide your fingers up the back of jake’s neck in a gentle tickle, and right on cue he lets out a little ‘eek!’, slapping your hand away. he pushes you softly and you giggle, falling back from your crouched stance on your toes and onto your butt. you hug your legs, resting your chin on your knee as you watch him continue to dry up the mess.

“they probably just like you. i know i do.” you drop a little hint at the end. he never seems to catch on.

“they can like me all they want, just far away from me please.” he grumbles, taking the can to the kitchen to toss it in the trash.

“spiders are friends!~” he hears you sing from the other room.

he drops the can into the bin, hoping this is the last of his spider related worries.

—🕷️🕸️🕷️—

jake never thought he would ever be friends with spiders. let alone be one.

it took him a while to realize that the spider bite had caused him more trouble than just a slight fear of the nooks and crannies of his apartment. much more trouble.

he discovered that it was him creating the webs he was finding around when he dropped his pen once while writing out some notes for a class, and when he tried to grab it before it hit the ground, he’d caught it with a collection of web strands that shot out of his wrist instead.

he discovered how strong his webs were when he tripped on the staircase while running late one day, spurting out a web that stuck to the wall and caught him, and tugged him upright before he hit the ground.

and he discovered how useful this strange new talent could be outside your apartment.

“so, any news about that spider? you brought it in to study it, right?” jake asks as nonchalantly as he possibly can, walking down the concrete steps beside you.

“oh, actually yes! we think it might be a-“

suddenly a hooded figure runs by, snatching your backpack from right off your shoulders, and sprinting down the sidewalk through a dense crowd of pedestrians.

the stranger nearly knocked you to the ground with the push-and-shove of stealing your belongings. jake caught you, steadied you on your feet, and booked it after him without even thinking twice, leaving your confused cries to stop behind him.

his speed and reflexes seemed to be heightened as he caught up in a few seconds flat, and in a fraction of that time he had a web wrapped around the strap of your bag, pulling it directly into his chest to wrap his arms around, and a leg out to sweep the thief’s legs straight out from under him, sending him face first into the pavement.

jake stands motionless for a second, energy rushing through his veins, and waits for his brain to process what had just happened. when it does, it feels like he’d just returned to his own body from somewhere completely different.

you caught up to jake after a moment, heaving heavily from your tired lungs. your eyes widen at the scene in front of you; a completely unscathed jake and a nearly unconscious criminal bleeding from the nose below.

“how did-“ you struggle for a full breath. “how did you do that?”

“uhm- adrenaline, i think?” honestly, jake isn’t quite sure how he did this either.

“jake, you could have gotten hurt!” you scold him, trying your best to sound steady and serious, but by the way your hands tremble it tells him you were more worried for his safety than anything else.

“i wasn’t gonna stand there and do nothing,” he says like its the most obvious thing in the world. he settles your bag back on your shoulders, looping your arms through the straps for you and adjusting the fabric of your sleeves. your eyes gloss over and you’re gnawing at your lip like you’re trying your best not to cry.

“your laptop is expensive. we can’t have you lose that,” he jokes, attempting to lighten the mood.

you let out a trembling laugh, and yank him in to hug him with a full crushing force. “you’re such an idiot,” you whine, and he returns the hug with a chuckle of his own.

jake isn’t sure how he did this or what exactly is going on, but what he is sure about is that whatever is happening to him, using it to protect you will always be his first priority.

—🕸️🕷️🕸️—

the idea to become a “hero” of sorts struck jake one day like a bolt of lightning.

the notion sounds absolutely crazy, jake knows that, but the circumstances have fallen directly into his lap, and he knows that if he has the ability, the real ability to protect people, he should take it.

he practices his web slinging in private, and he’s gotten quite good at it; he now can do it on command instead of at random, and can control it when he needs to.

(and yes, he’s made all of the jokes, even if he’s the only person around to laugh. he can shoot sticky white goo from his wrists, did you expect him not to be a little silly with it?)

he practices his dexterity in the air out in an old alley that no one has any reason to frequent. in doing so, his muscles have bulked up significantly, and he was flustered beyond belief when you of all people were the one the pointed it out.

he told himself that if he was going to be this new face of justice, he should protect his identity and keep it separate from his personal life. he didn’t want anyone he knew and loved getting involved; if someone got hurt because of him he wouldn’t be able to bare it.

so he made a few suit prototypes from old clothes and acrylic paint. he may not be the craftiest, but he made do, and he learned some sewing basics in the process, though you really wouldn’t be able to tell. (in the end he commissioned someone to make one for him anyway, for the sake of quality.)

the last thing he really needed came to him after he’d successfully helped a woman with an issue involving a man following her down the street late one night. after making sure the woman was safe enough to leave, he attaches his web to a fire escape and is about to swing away.

“what do i call you?” she yells out from below him as he hangs from the rail.

he thinks for a second. web boy? no, that’s dumb. arachnid kid? a little silly, he likes that it rhymes, but it still doesn’t feel right.

and then it hits him.

“spiderman.”

he swings away, and within the next few weeks, ‘spiderman’ is everything that people are talking about.

you included.

“have you seen him?” you ask him excitedly, rocking back and forth on your heels as you both stand in line at your favorite ice cream shop. “he’s so cool!”

he chuckles a little. “i’ve heard of him.” a blush creeps up on his face he hopes you don’t see, but you’re too excited to even notice. “cool, huh?”

“so cool!” you thank the worker for your milkshakes and leave the small shop, the bell above the door jingling as you step outside. “i want to talk to him so bad, i bet he’s so interesting, and he’s probably so cute under the mask,” you daydream out loud as you walk down the sidewalk.

jake coughs a bit in surprise. “what makes you think that?”

“don’t be jealous,” you poke, a smirk on your face. “just a hunch.”

in a split second you’re suddenly yanked to the edge of the sidewalk by jake as you’re about to step onto the crosswalk. before you can comprehend why, someone comes barreling through on a bicycle, shouting a faint ‘sorry!’ as they whiz by, the wind fluttering your hair. your milkshake slips from your fingers, a small gasp leaving your lips, and jake grabs it before it can splatter across the ground, placing it back in your hand for you.

“you okay?” he asks, brushing off your jacket. you don’t answer, still staring off in the direction the bike went in shock. as soon as everything catches up to you, you look at him, eyes wide. “that was insane! when did you get such crazy reflexes?”

“what do you mean?” jake sweats a little. “didn’t you hear him coming?”

you shake your head. “no that’s not it, you did that so fast, and my drink-“

“i think- i think you were just caught off guard,” he excuses, ushering you forward to keep walking.

“so um. you were talking about spiderman?”

—🕷️🕸️🕷️—

and talk about spiderman you did.

specifically, you talk about how you would love to meet him, to speak to him.

so, who would jake be to keep that from you when he is the one you want to meet?

well unfortunately, it wasn’t his choice.

(how was he supposed to go about that? knock on your door and say “hello random citizen, i’m spiderman! your best friend jake who i totally don’t know and definitely am not the same person as said you wanted to talk to me”?)

no, in reality, it was a total accident.

he finds himself crash landing onto the roof of your apartment building after a particularly brutal fight he’d gotten himself tied up in, his fatigue and pain not letting him swing any longer to make it all the way back home. he groans loudly, cradling his leg in his arms as he lays on the cold roof in the fetal position.

“spiderman??”

fuck. he knows that voice.

he lifts his head up in the direction it came from, seeing your head pop up over the ledge of the building. before he can say anything, you scramble up from the fire escape and run over to his side.

‘great,’ jake thinks. this is the second worst byproduct of you having a top floor apartment. (he still remembers how sore he was after having to help you drag your mattress up several flights of stairs when you moved in.)

“are you okay?”

“i’m fine, i’m good, i just-“ he attempts to stand on his own, but groans again, and crumples under his own weight. its your turn to catch him before he falls.

“oh god, um, i can help! just- here-“ you sling his arm around your shoulder and huddle into his side, and you help him hobble to the edge. he clambers down the fire escape, using his webs to keep him relatively stable, and fumbles through the window and onto the floor of your apartment. he hits the floor with a thud and a moan.

“sorry! um, i’ll get my first aid kit! i’ll be back!”

you leave and come back in a blind hurry, making quick work of rolling up the torn part of his suit to get a clear enough view of the gash in his leg to start your process. it hurts at first, a lot actually, but the pain subsides not long after. maybe because its you doing it, and he trusts you more than anyone, but he feels so much love and care in your movements.

he lets you focus in quiet for a while before he finally decides to say something.

“for someone who studies bugs and not medicine, you’re pretty good at that.”

you raise your eyebrows at him, wrapping a bandage around his calf. “how do you know i study bugs?”

shit. “just a hunch.”

you glance at him, not convinced.

“the pinned butterflies on your wall.”

“ah,” you say, nodding.

whew.

“maybe i just like butterflies.”

“that could be it too.” he chuckles under the mask. “i mean they’re pretty. like you. so it makes sense.”

you blush, a smile tugging at your lips. “smooth.”

“thanks, i know,” jake drawls, leaning to suavely rest on his elbow next to him, and hits his head on a table. “ow.” you both laugh.

when you finally get him patched up, he thanks you (he almost leans in for a hug on accident, but settles for a firm handshake instead) and climbs over the windowsill in preparation to take his leave.

“hey, can i ask you something?”

jake’s heart pounds. “sure.”

“can you.. come back sometime?” you twist your fingers nervously as you ask, avoiding his eyes. “i always wanted to talk to you but, this wasn’t really.. under the best circumstances, i guess.”

jake’s brain doesnt know if he should say yes, but his heart knows he could never say no to you, spiderman or otherwise.

“of course.” your smile makes it worth it.

he slings a web up onto a bar of the fire escape and flings himself out.

“wait!”

he turns back, glancing back down at you leaning out the windowsill, the chilled wind fluttering your hair.

“i don’t just like butterflies. i like spiders, too.”

jake grins.

“i didn’t used to like spiders. but i think they’re growing on me.”

and with that, he swings away.

—🕸️🕷️🕸️—

despite his better judgement, jake does come back. more than once.

he knows he shouldn’t appear as spiderman in front of you more than he needs to, but it just makes you so happy, it was physically impossible for him not to when he knows he’s the reason for your smile every time.

he sits with you now on the roof of your apartment, the same place you found him the first time, and the same place you two always meet now.

“-and that’s the story of how i met my best friend jake.” you finish your story, face flushed from laughing, and he’s forever grateful you can’t see his face under his mask. if he’s being honest (having lived through that torture with you) you actually told it way less embarrassing than he remembers it being. whether you perceive it less humiliating than he does or if you’re just gracious enough not to go into detail with strangers he’s not sure, but he’s thankful nonetheless.

“seems like you really care about him.”

“jake?” you ask, leaning back to rest on the heels of your hands. “well, yeah. he’s my favorite person in the whole world. don’t you feel that way about your best friend, too?”

jake feels his face heat up. “yeah, um. you pretty much took the words right out of my mouth.”

“yeah? tell me about them. what’s their name?”

“hey, whoa” jake lifts his hands in defense. “ask me about my favorite ninja turtle all day, but i can’t be giving out my best friend’s identity. why do you think i wear the mask?”

you laugh, nodding in understanding. “okay, okay, fair.”

a comfortable silence falls for a moment, and jake watches you gaze at the stars above the city lights.

“you remind me of him, you know.”

“huh?” jake snaps back into the present.

“jake. you guys seem really similar, honestly. same mannerisms, same cologne-“ you know the smell of his cologne? “you say things sometimes that i definitely think he would say. same favorite ninja turtle, too.”

he never really realized you paid this much attention to him. his heart flutters.

“ehh, i don’t know. guy sounds like a total nerd.”

you snort out a laugh. “oh he is,” ouch?? “but he’s my nerd. i love him just how he is. i wouldn’t change a single thing about him.”

“.. you love him?”

another silence. this one a little more.. tense.

“i love all my friends, but jake is.. different.”

“different how?”

“i’m not in love with my other friends.”

jake’s brain nearly short circuits right then and there. how he gets a single comprehensible sentence out of his mouth after that is honestly beyond him. but he’s not jake right now, he’s spiderman.

“i’m in love with my best friend too.”

“really?” you look at him, a sense of hope in your eyes, like you just found the only other person in the world in the same position as you. if you only knew.

“this,” he motions to his suit, and in turn the whole act of being spiderman at all. “its for them. i help everyone i can, of course, but,” he seems to be lost in thought for a second, drumming his fingers on his knee. “like you said, they’re different. i’d do anything for them. anything at all.”

you tilt your head at him. “wow, who knew a superhero could be so sappy.”

“yeah, yeah,” he waves his hand dismissively. “my bad, gotta protect my stone cold image.” you huff out a laugh.

“have you told them?”

“no.”

“why?”

“same reason as you, i’m guessing.”

“fear?”

“fear.”

a knowing look is passed between you.

“my best friend doesn’t actually know i’m spiderman.”

“wait really?” you ask, surprised. “why not?”

“how am i supposed to tell them that? ‘hey by the way i’m risking my life every day for you!’ that seems like a horrible conversation.”

you chuckle. “yeah, i get that. i suppose its similar to the reason you haven’t confessed. the fear of rejection is present either way.”

“exactly,” he sighs.

after a second, a light bulb seems to come on above your head. “hey, i’ve got an idea. you tell your best friend you’re spiderman, and i’ll tell my best friend i’m in love with him.”

“that’s a terrible idea,” jake admits through a chuckle.

“is it?” you feign indignant. “if they love us, they’ll accept us, right?”

jake thinks it over for a second, his heart racing so fast he hopes you can’t hear it.

“okay. deal.”

you grin. “perfect.”

how the hell is he gonna do that?

“jake should actually be on his way, i’ll call him to make sure.”

shit. shit. he forgot about movie night.

you pull out your phone, tapping quickly to find his contact and press your phone to your ear. jake panics, pulling his phone from his suit just as it starts to ring, and presses end as soon as he can reach the button.

you give him a puzzled look, and he huffs nervously. “sorry, scam calls.” he shoves his phone into his suit before you can see it.

“hm. it went straight to voicemail. that’s odd,” you muse, glancing at the ‘call ended’ screen.

“maybe he’s driving. yknow, gotta stay safe,” he bumbles, nerves flooding his system as he stands up and dusts off the back of his legs. “hey listen, its been great, but i just remembered i have to go-“

“wait, wait!” you jump up as well, grabbing onto his gloved hand. “can you stay for just a minute? i think jake would really love to meet you!”

“i really uh- its- its important- i should-“

“it’ll just be a second! i promise! don’t move!” you plead. you give his hand a squeeze, and before jake can stop you, you hop down the fire escape and scurry back into your apartment.

—🕷️🕸️🕷️—

jake is fucked. absolutely fucked.

as soon as he sees you disappear into your apartment to wait for, well, him, he slings himself down to an alley to ‘jake’ himself up.

luckily, he has spare clothes stored across the city in case of emergencies like this. he stuffs his hand through a hole in the bricks of an abandoned building and pulls out a backpack, and as quickly as he possibly can, he pulls his clothes on over his suit, shoves his mask in and zips it up. he ruffles his messy hair in an attempt to seem a more presentable type of messy, and sprints out into the street.

now trekking up the stairs toward your apartment door, he thinks there wasn’t even really a logical reason to do this. he could have just told you right then that it was him, but something inside him told him that wasn’t the right time or place.

stopping in front of your door, he prepares himself, catching his breath before he knocks.

you swing it open immediately, a huge smile on your face.

“jake! i have something to show- why are you so sweaty?”

“i uh- i was running late so i ran.” he fumbles for an excuse. he walks in and is about to kick off his shoes when you grab his arm, dragging him across the living room to your window.

“come with me first! i have something to show you!” you say, brimming with excitement.

“hold on- i need to-“

“hurry!” you squeal, and hop out the window to climb the ladder. jake internally groans, following after you.

he grabs the rungs and hoists himself up behind you. “can i tell you something first?” he calls upwards. “its important!”

“this is important too! he has to be somewhere!”

oh, so now you listen to that information.

when his head pops up above the ladder to see the expanse of the rooftop, you’re already looking around, confused.

“where did he-“

“why are we up here?”

“i’m looking for someone! he said he would stay for a second,” you whine.

he never actually agreed to that, but he’ll let it slide.

you grip the barrier of the roof and pull yourself up to stand on the ledge, putting your arms out to steady yourself as you survey the area.

“what are you doing!” jake shouts, running up to you and grabbing your waist to prevent you from falling. “you have terrible balance!”

“relax, i’m fine. maybe if i fall he’ll come back to swoop in and save me.”

and as if the universe took that as some sort of sick challenge, a huge gust of wind blows through, knocking your balance off. you tilt forward with a strained yelp, flailing your arms. jake tries to grip your belt loops but they slip from his fingers, and he lets out an exasperated yell.

bracing yourself for a horrendous fall, you let out a scream, squeezing your eyes shut.

but it never comes.

you’re suspended in the air, but there’s no rushing air, no sinking feeling in your gut, everything just.. stopped.

you pop an eye open, met with the rough red texture of the brick in front of you. you follow your arm that’s outstretched above you upward, expecting somehow to see jake’s grip wrapped around your wrist, but instead you see a bracelet of weaved white. you lock eyes with him, a terribly worried expression on his face, the same white around your wrist attached to the underside of his.

for the first time, it all clicks together.

the webs in his apartment. the way they have the same voice, same habits. the way the spider on the suit is jake’s favorite color. his change in demeanor these past few weeks. jake having a limp from the same leg spiderman had injured around the same time.

it all finally makes sense.

“you-.. you’re-..”

“surprise,” jake whispers, a small, guilty smile on his face.

“can you. pull me up, please?” you tremble.

“oh! yeah, sorry.” jake brings you in with ease, grabbing firmly onto your body until you’re sat on your knees on the safety of the roof. you lunge forward, trapping jake in a bone crushing hug. he feels that you’re still shaking, and wraps himself around you with equal fervor, holding your head to his shoulder and stroking your hair to soothe you.

how could you have been so stupid? so clueless? you had every single piece of the puzzle, yet you were so blind to the placements.

it hits you then, that you had confessed to him without knowing it.

jake pulls you back and holds onto your shoulders, scanning you for any injuries. “are you okay?”

when he locks eyes with you, he sees how flustered you look, the blush on your face, and he has to bite back a smile.

“well, this is a little awkward,” he chuckles.

“you’re such an idiot,” you scoff, a common phrase nowadays it seems, but he hears no real weight in your words.

“i should have known. no ones favorite ninja turtle is leonardo except yours.”

“don’t bring my boy into this.”

“why didn’t you tell me?”

“well i think spiderman already explained that,” he says with a shit eating grin.

you roll your eyes. “yeah, he told me quite a bit, actually. some pretty gushy stuff.” jake whines nervously, scratching the back of his neck.

“big mouth on that guy, huh.”

“jake.”

“hm?”

“i have something to tell you.”

he smiles shyly. “yeah?”

you grab jake by the zipper of his jacket, pulling you together to connect your lips in a kiss. his hands immediately find your waist to pull you closer, practically falling on top of him. he tilts his head to kiss you deeper. you sigh happily in tandem.

after a second your hands find the sides of his face and you pull away, giggling at how you both can’t stop smiling and its making it hard to continue.

“i love you.”

“i love you, too.”

you run your thumb across his bottom lip, admiring the contours of his face and how his goofy grin and lidded eyes are so full of warmth.

“don’t you have something to confess to me, too?”

“i still don’t like spiders.”

“jake!” you push him back by the chest and he laughs, wrapping his arms completely around your torso.

he wiggles his fingers up your spine in a crawling motion, making you shiver and swat him away in a fit of giggles. he leans in close to your ear, and whispers-

“i’m spiderman.”

#if i had a nickel for every time i made reader fall off the edge of a building id have two nickels #which isnt a lot but its weird that it happened twice #sim jaeyun #sim jaeyun x reader #sim jake #sim jake x reader #enhypen x reader #enhypen fluff #judah.doc

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skyrigel · 4 months ago

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Simon Riley came every Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. He always bought ‘one’ of many things. One plate, one milk carton, one coffee mug, one yogurt cup, and several other one's.

It was infuriating, the mystery he possessed — hardly any word, he simply nodded and left. Came back again in his very sexy- very much left to your own devices all black attire and damn that stupid mask you'd tore from your own mouth if ever such opportunity came, that treacherous thing !

Considering how you bribed lads round the corner to get that man's name was pretty embarrassing.

But you had to do something; wondering what those arms and chest and face and thighs and inserting many immoral curiosities would look like wouldn't get you anywhere.

“You and your wife eat from the same plate or what ?”

Simon's eyes were already on you when you risked a glance up from the single ceramic plate, but you had taken him by surprise by speaking first. Well it's rare when he buys dishes, very rare, and all of them are mismatched and what a bachelor would work upon, but proof was much needed.

“I don't have a wife.” He said quietly, punctuated with the beep as you scanned other many items. You scrambled further to ask for husband, or —“or anyone.” Simon added with soft nod.

You sighed with relief, while Simon looked with widened eyes, analysing you. Fuck.

That shouldn't have made your heart flutter, and his voice — god, his voice was different from the one you presumed in your head. It was husky, and deep, but the smoothness of it strung like iyre played.

“What do you do when your friends come over ?” you asked because Mr. Riley apparently wasn't looking away, and your cheeks could've rivaled a beetroot.

“I have no friends.” He said simply, eyes locked, assessing, you felt numb and breathless — his gaze was heavy, and addictive.

Another beep. “What if someone visits you?” You swallowed hard, and Simon's jaw pulled back. Was he smirking !?

“Why would someone visit me ?”

“To check on you. To spend time with you. Be your friend or something…you know.”

Simon definitely knew, since the glint in his eyes was jolting sparks inside you, making you glitter up like confetti.

The store was empty except for two sixteen year olds who were picking through booze, one's ear was bleeding — possibly a post restroom piercing souvenir.

“Why would someone want to spend time with someone like me ?” He was asking you a question, uncertain but confident to get an answer back.

“You are a mysterious man, Mr. Riley.” You said instead, bobbling your head like a teenager as you felt so high school just by looking at him, he had you all giddy, all desperate to keep going the conversation and now it didn't seem like something was needed to keep the fire going, the flames were high on.

“Yet someone knows my name already.”

“Someone would —” you gasped, clenching your eyes shut for one brief moment, this was it, you couldn't back down now, “Someone would like to know more.”

Simon's gaze was unwavering, then wordlessly he disappeared back in the store.

You scrambled to hold on to something, almost half dashing to check over cameras and find him, or just chase after him to apologise…for being so pathetically terrible. Mindlessly with biting lips and trembling hands and tapping feet you scanned cigs and booze for the two boys with swollen lips and smug smiles, at least someone was lucky tonight.

“Fuck.” You sighed, red with embarrassment, you'd scared him off. Although no one would believe it because Simon was a pretty intimidating man. Big and strong and ghost-like.

Then out of nowhere, several cutlery and groceries and a wine bottle came by a cart and behind it stood Simon Riley, with muscular thighs and a shy smile.

Simon's hand hovered over the items you'd already scanned and billed, then blinking he unclasped his mask — revealing his jaw, and his white smirk that was dwindling to an inevitable, involuntary smile — he smiled like someone who didn't smile a lot, that needed to be changed.

“Would someone like to eat Chicken curry, and possibly drink some wine ?” Simon said with a coy smile, holding out the wine bottle to you.

You chuckled softly, taking the wine bottle and scanning it with a beep, “Someone would like that.”

Masterlist

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novthirty · 19 days ago

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you best believe after i finish my sylus fic for his bday i am going to be putting my whole wussy into writing prime angst for caleb 🧎🏻‍♀️🧎🏻‍♀️ i am WEAK to cyborg men how did infold KNOWWWWW

#if i had a nickel for everytime i was deeply obsessed with a childhood best friend who died but came back alive with ptsd and a metal arm #id have two nickels #which isnt a lot but its weird it happened twice #the winter soldier vibes of this man are sending me #like why is he giving nier too???#ugh i love him #love and deepspace #lads caleb #caleb xia #caleb x reader #caleb x mc #novthirty-yaps

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shinymoonbraixen · 2 months ago

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Something me and Dabi have in common... Carsickness. Dabi, you gotta sit in the front and don't look down alr?

And something me and Spinner have in common is our love for driving in video games.

Honestly, id take the chance to call him 'turtle' if I were you.

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water-petal · 3 months ago

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y/n that doesn't understand cybertronian tries to roast local spike mask lover

Y/N: yo mama! vos: *yells in cybertronian* Y/n: what did he just say? Nickel: *trying to process the comeback by vos* Tarn: he just roasted your dog, your looks, your life, your profession, your entire bloodline and even your post box Y/n:

#incorrect quotes transformer #transformer x reader #transformers djd #idw tarn #djd #kaon #nickel transformer #nickel djd #x yn #y/n

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leviscolwill · 1 year ago

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rúben blurb — #1

you can all thank dilara for rotting my brain with dad!ruben thoughts, also i think this singlehandedly cured my parents issues

you hated loosing your patience with your daughter, but tatiana drawing on her bedroom wall was your last straw after a long day of terrible news. you always felt awful for screaming at her, especially after the big brown eyes she got from her father welled up with tears.

you let her stay with rúben while you tried to distract yourself with grocery shopping. when you opened your front door still guilty about the whole screaming fit, your house was nothing like when you left it. it was now filled with laughter and a divine smell was luring you to the kitchen. but before you could take a step inside and find out the object of your craving, rúben's tall figure blocked the entry.

“no, no. you take a seat, i have a special chef cooking something for you.” he added a little wink, a silent ‘don't worry, i got this’. you sat down waiting for your little surprise, that revealed itself soon enough, in the shape of a lovely 6 year old girl covered in flour, her tiny hands full of a big plate of pancakes.

“i'm sorry mommy, i didn't want to make you mad.” her little voice, made you forget about every other trivial matters of today. you immediately took tati on your lap, and stroked her hair.

“i wasn't mad at you meu anjo (my angel), mommy just had a bad day. i shouldn't have screamed at you, i'm sorry tati.” you covered your daughter's face and hair of little kisses when rúben joined you two and placed a kiss on both your heads, before taking a seat next to you.

“did you cook these by yourself baby?” you asked to your daughter pointing at the perfect pancakes, she laughed a bit and shook her head.

“no daddy helped me, but i cracked the eggs myself!”

“did you now? i'm so proud of you my little chef, you might have to replace daddy soon.” you knew tatiana was over the moon with the little tasks that were handed to her, and you took the opportunity to tease your husband as well.

his large, flour covered, hand, squeezed your cheeks together, “i'll always be my girls' chef, but i can take a little rat under my hat.”

#if i had a nickel for every ratatouille reference i wrote #i'd have two nickels #which isn't a lot but it's weird that it happened twice #ruben dias imagine #ruben dias one shot #ruben dias #ruben dias blurb #ruben dias x reader #ruben dias fluff #ruben dias fanfic #football one shot #football x reader #football fluff #football fanfic #football imagine #footballer imagine

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tang3r1n · 10 months ago

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cute idea but hero!chizome grappling with a hopeless crush on all might’s daughter figure (jus a chick he took under his wing izuku style)

like UGH. he’s such an old-school gentleman FUCK. he sends flower bouquets with your favorite flowers and like a 4 page letter with the most beautiful and eloquent language used to talk about how in love he is, and he talks like he’s fucking dying. exhibit a;

“i would lay myself at your alter, goddess, my insides laid out for your tasting, your pleasure— please eat of my flesh, consume me whole and let me feel accomplished as a simple, filling meal for you.

oh i beg of you, let my soul forever intertwine with yours, let me feels the silk of your skin, the heat of your breathe, plunge your hand into my heart and cherish it. sink your teeth into my neck and devour me.

i yearn for you, lovely thing. warmly, obsessively, lovingly, carnally, i can only hope you pity my foolish desires— my insane ramblings of fanatic and desperate attempts to gain your affections. please, please by the grace of all that is just and fair, let me worship you. let me treat you as you want to be.

i pray to no god but that of your body, of your mind, of your soul. there is no religion outside of your teachings, my muse. your word is my law, my written oath, music in the grand hall, the rain, the air, the existence of love. i would sooner accept death and the failure of my life’s work than to even acknowledge the existence of beauty that shines brighter than yours.

i beg of you, let my lowly hands hold you, let my soiled and ugly form touch and feel you, let me court you, my fair woman.

let me love you.”

omfg and he’s so petty. randoms in the street and fellow heroes flirting with you? he’s sighing and scoffing dramatically before completing dissecting their speech patterns, body posture, heroing skills, physical appearance, literally anything he can to make them leave you two alone

i feel like he doesn’t care abt how he looks (i mean duh no nose.) but the second you mention liking muscles he’s suddenly finding excuses to flex and stretch around you non stop, he’s doubling up his workout routine and bulking like a MOTHER FUCKER to see if you’re staring yet.

AAAHHH idk i just love chizome and need him insanely badly.

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broidobe · 1 month ago

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𝔡𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔨𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔶 𝔫𝔦𝔠𝔨𝔢𝔩𝔰 𝔴𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔩𝔲𝔡𝔢

requested by 🦝!!

⁎⁺˳✧༚80s-90s rock masterlist

sweet and genuine

kelly would be one of those guys who’s super down-to-earth and kind, always making sure you feel loved and appreciated

he’s got a big heart and isn’t afraid to show it, especially to the people he cares about.

playful but respectful

kelly’s got that playful side, always joking around and keeping things lighthearted

but he knows when to be serious and respectful, and he always knows how to read the room

you can expect plenty of inside jokes and light teasing, but never crossing a line.

the good listener

kelly is definitely the type of guy who listens

if you’ve had a rough day or need to vent, he’s all ears

he genuinely cares about how you’re feeling and won’t interrupt you—just offers support when you need it.

musically involved

since he’s super passionate about music, kelly would probably love to share that with you.

he’d invite you to jam out with him, teach you a thing or two on bass, or even just talk about his favorite bands and what inspires him.

music would be a big part of your relationship.

big on affection

kelly would be affectionate in a soft way—like casual touches, holding your hand, and always making sure you feel comfortable and cared for

he’d be the type to hug you from behind when you’re cooking, kiss you on the forehead, or rest his head on your shoulder when you’re watching a movie together.

low-key romantic

he’s not the type to go overboard with grand gestures, but he knows how to show his affection in little ways.

whether it’s picking up your favorite snack after a rough day or writing you a little note just because, kelly’s romantic in his own subtle way.

spontaneous adventures

kelly is all about having fun, so you can expect spontaneous trips or adventures. whether it’s a road trip to nowhere or trying something new and exciting, he’s always ready to go on a new adventure with you.

loves cooking for you

if you like food, kelly is definitely the type who’d surprise you with a homemade dinner or bake you something sweet

he’d take pride in cooking for you, and you’d often find him in the kitchen whipping up something delicious.

a rock for you

when things get tough, kelly would be a rock.

he’s strong emotionally, and he’d make sure you always feel safe and supported. he’d encourage you to open up about your feelings and wouldn’t shy away from tough conversations.

trusting but protective

he trusts you completely, but if anyone crosses a line, he’s quick to step in.

it’s not about being possessive, but more about making sure you’re treated with respect and care. he’s got your back no matter what.

cuddly in the quiet moments

kelly is totally the type to just want to curl up with you on the couch, binge-watch your favorite shows, or chill out together after a long day.

he enjoys the quiet moments where you can just be close, without any pressure.

#broidobe #dating headcannons #la guns #kelly nickels #kelly nickels x reader #kelly nickels headcannons #kelly nickels fanfic #80s bands #80s rock #twink nation

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youremyonepiece · 1 year ago

Text

salty afflictions

sanji x gn!reader (no pronouns used), reader's pov

your powers come with unique dietary restrictions, but sanji's not one to back down from a challenge (especially not if it's you).

warnings: none, light fluff (please lmk if there are any i should add!)

word count: 1.9k

"okay," sanji says, tone verging on exasperation, "let me get this straight." he peers at you through his furrowed curly eyebrows, but there is no malice in his stare-- only disbelief. "you can't eat salt?"

you laugh uncomfortably at the question. the rest of the straw hats have their eyes fixed on you as well, waiting earnestly for your answer. most of their plates lie forgotten in front of them; only luffy is moving, shoveling food into his mouth with both hands, but he too is staring directly at you. sanji is standing in front of you, a matching plate balancing on one of his hands. your own grip tightens around your carrot as you shift and shrink under the weight of everyone's combined gazes before taking a small chomp to hopefully diffuse some of the tension.

it doesn't work.

it makes things worse.

the carrot feels like dry mulch as you chew and swallow it loudly. everyone else simply continues to stare, the moment dragging on as they wait for you to respond.

you let out another uncomfortable laugh once your mouth is empty before clearing your throat. "um, yeah," you finally manage to say. you resist the urge to slam your head into the dinner table at your eloquence and continue, "the salt content in my body would get too high. i'd be no different than a puddle of sea water. which would, um-- which would be bad."

you can't stop another laugh from defensively bubbling through your lips. sanji notices and moves away to put your plate in front of luffy (with him around, no food would ever go to waste). "well," he says, pointedly nonchalant as he takes his seat and leans back to take a drag from his cigarette. "i love a good challenge, and you certainly are a lovely one." a smirk forms around his cigarette and just like that, the tension in the room shatters. you throw a grateful look in his direction as the crew's attention turns away from you and back to their dinners.

"typical sanji," usopp says with a playful roll of his eyes before shoving a spoonful of food into his mouth. "still, that must suck."

"yeah," you say in response. "i mean, i'm used to it, but i definitely miss some foods. it saved my life, though," you say with a shrug, "so it is what it is." you take another bite of your carrot, larger than the last in hopes of deterring anyone from asking you any more questions.

you feel someone's eyes on you again and turn your head to see sanji staring at you. there's still a smile on his face and in his eyes-- you can't help but hold your breath as you meet his gaze. he's looking at you as though he’s just discovered a new type of fish, you think to yourself. like he can't wait to experiment and discover the best ways to filet, bake, fry you up.

unlike with the others, being under sanji’s gaze doesn’t make you squirm in your seat. instead, you find yourself feeling comfortably warm-- you’re always comfortable with sanji. he’s been nothing but considerate and thoughtful from the start, and you knew he would never do anything to hurt you.

well, he would never do anything to hurt any woman, not just you.

you ignore the turning of your stomach-- get real, he would never feel the same way about you-- and instead avert your eyes to take great interest in your carrot. wow, it sure is orange--

"you'll have to allow me to borrow some of your time later, sweetheart," sanji says, interrupting your riveting thoughts. "we'll figure out what i can cook for you. can't have you going hungry, now can we?" he winks at you and you feel the heat creep up your neck and into your cheeks.

“um-- sure,” you say, and you're sure your face is bright red. gosh, did you have to be so awkward?

to your relief, though, franky starts talking excitedly about his ideas for new upgrades on the sunny, and with that the flow of the conversation is thankfully diverted away from you and the side effects of your hydro-hydro logia devil fruit. you finish your carrot as quickly as you can before quietly excusing yourself from the group and scurrying out onto the deck.

and though you don’t dare look up to confirm it, you swear you feel sanji’s eyes on you the entire time until you’ve left the room. but no-- there’s no way. you’re imagining it, letting your fantasies get the better of you. he wouldn’t have watched you leave, not when nami and robin were still in the room with him.

(if you had looked up, though, you would have found you were right.)

you’re sitting on a bench by nami’s tangerine trees the next morning after breakfast, absentmindedly flipping through a novel you borrowed from robin. it’s an unusually calm, placid day, the weather perfect and the soft breeze refreshing. the kind of day you want to spend outside and doing nothing. it’s easy to zone out the various noises from your crewmates: luffy’s joyful yelling followed closely by chopper’s worried shouts, zoro’s rumbling snores, nami’s playful teasing at usopp’s desperate rambling, sanji’s... footsteps?

you look up from the book to find the blond man walking calmly towards you with his blazer slung over his shoulder, an easy smile gracing his lips. it grows as your eyes meet, but he doesn’t speak until he comes to a stop a few feet away from you. “hello, gorgeous. got a minute? i wanted to get your thoughts on a few dishes i whipped up earlier for you.”

be cool, you tell yourself. be calm, casual-- “yeah, of course! i’d love to!” great job.

but you can’t feel upset for too long, not when sanji’s face lights up at your response. not when he’s holding a hand out for you to take. your cheeks grow warm (surprise, surprise) as you pause, taking in the sight of the kind man in front of you and his breathtaking smile, before reaching out to take his hand.

you’re hyper-aware of his fingers against yours as he gently guides you to the kitchen and can’t help the wave of disappointment that washes over you when he pulls away to drape his jacket over a bar chair and roll up his shirt sleeves. he motions you over to the table before turning away to grab a couple plates from the kitchen counter.

“so,” he begins as he places various dishes in front of you, “i normally use salt in just about every dish i make. it’s a flavor enhancer-- without it, most foods would taste flat and bland.” he places the last dish in front of you before straightening and flashing one of his brilliant smiles at you. (if you were in a cartoon, your heart would have just doki-doki-ed out of your chest.) “but there’s other ways to bring flavor into food, and there’s beauty in simple foods, too.”

you take in the various foods in front of you; each plate contains no more than maybe five spoonfuls of food, but there are so many. salads and soups and stews and snacks-- so many foods you hadn’t eaten since getting your powers. sanji pushes one of the plates closer to you-- a colorful pile of leafy greens and veggies, topped with what looks like olive oil and a freshly squeezed lemon wedge-- and takes the seat across from you. “salads, of course, are an easy answer. the best salads use fresh vegetables and high quality oil, and as long as you balance the flavors well, you won’t even miss the saltier ingredients like cheese.”

intrigued, you bring a forkful to your mouth, and-- wow. you never had been a huge fan of salads, especially since they now consisted of the majority of your meals, but this is easily the best salad you’ve ever had. you clean the plate within a couple seconds, much to sanji’s apparent delight.

and so he continues, explaining his reasoning behind each dish and watching intently as you practically inhale the food. “sanji,” you say in between dishes after what must have been over half an hour of food tasting, “this is amazing. i don’t think i’ve had food that tastes this good ever-- not even before i ate my devil fruit. i can’t believe you did all this for me.”

it’s his turn to blush at your words, and for some reason his bashfulness makes you feel embarrassed as well. you shut your mouth and look back down at the plate in front of you: cauliflower chunks he had coated in a spiced batter before frying and coating in a sauce made from nami’s tangerines. it’s true, though-- every single dish you had tasted had been phenomenal, so clearly made with kindness. you had resigned yourself to eating raw veggies for the rest of your life, and the fact that sanji had come up with a whole slew of meals that you could eat despite your power-induced diet, that too within a day of learning about it... no one had ever done something so thoughtful for you before.

your thoughts are interrupted by an unexpectedly acrid scent-- is something... burning? you look up from the plate, frowning, and almost immediately spot the smoking pan on the stove. “sanji! the pan!”

sanji, who had been staring at you with a dazed look in his eyes, seems to come to his senses with a few blinks. he glances backwards towards the stove and does a double-take in shock before leaping to his feet and rushing over to the burning pan. “merde! so sorry, love-- i must have forgotten to turn it off-- i was so excited to see your reaction--” he hisses suddenly, pulling his hand back with a jerk.

“sanji! did you burn yourself?” you’re on your feet, too, reaching his side within a blink of an eye. you take his hand in yours without hesitation, eyebrows furrowed with worry.

“darling, you should stay back, the fire--”

within seconds, you’ve doused the stove in water using your free hand. you then turn your eyes back to sanji’s burn, frowning in concentration as you coat the reddening skin with your cold water. “it doesn’t look too bad,” you murmur, eyes locked on his wound, “but you should still have chopper check it out.”

“will do,” he responds softly, and you freeze-- his voice is so close. you were so close.

you look up, throat dry as you meet his eyes. you feel your cheeks heat up yet again, but you can’t bring yourself to step away-- you can’t bring yourself to move. “you should--” you stop to clear your throat-- “you should be more careful.”

“i always am, but something about you makes me forget where i am.” he must see the question in your eyes, because he quickly adds, “in a good way, of course.”

“yeah, um-- same,” you say intelligently.

he laughs at your response, eyes full of affection as they remain on you. “c’mon,” he says, softly tapping your cheek with his uninjured hand before stepping slightly away from you, “we still have a few dishes to go.”

gosh, you think, stunned in place as you watch him move back towards the table. this man is truly going to be the death of you.

#one piece #sanji x you #sanji x reader #sanji fanfic #one piece sanji #black leg sanji #vinsmoke sanji x you #vinsmoke sanji x reader #one piece x reader #one piece x you #if i had a nickel for every sanji fic i wrote where sanji takes you to the kitchen to eat his food #id have two nickels #which isnt a lot but its weird that its happened twice #i have so so many fics that are 80 to 90 percent done #hopefully there'll be a lot of posts coming soon 🤞🏽#my writing #youremyonepiece

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marvelobsessed134 · 7 months ago

Note

can i request a kelly nickels smut where he absolutely rails the reader please 💗ྀིྀ

(idk if your meant to put gender but female!reader please)

Down Bad

Pairings: Kelly Nickels x Fem!Reader

A/n: Ahhhh Kelly makes me so fucking feral I’m so glad you requested me to write for him 🤭 also sorry this took so long to get out & sorry if it’s short. idek if you even read my stuff anymore 😭💀

Warnings: Smut, rough sex, praise, degradation, dom!kelly, sub!reader, breeding kink.

Kelly had a rough day at the studio with his new band, L.A. Guns. Getting into a new band has always been kind of hard and stressful, getting used to new peoples ideas and all that. So it’s no surprise that when he came home he demanded you to strip in the bedroom and wait for him.

Now you’re in doggy position, clinging to the sheets as he rails his large shaft into your tight hole. “Fuck, that’s it.” He moaned, gripping your hips so tight, you knew there was going to be bruises in the morning (ones that will only make Kelly want to fuck you again). The bassists’ tip repeatedly hit your g spot as tears slid down your face in both pleasure and overstimulation.

“Such a good fucking whore. My fucking whore.” His words only made you impossibly more wet. “I’m gonna fucking cum inside this cunt, baby. Gonna make you pregnant with my child.” You rolled your eyes back, his words making your brain short circuit.

“Please, Kelly! I’m about to cum please cum inside me!” You begged.

“Such a needy little slut, always needing to cum all over my cock, huh?” Kelly sped up his movements and snuck his finger down to your clit to rub it in tight, hard, and fast circles making your vision white and turning your brain off for a moment. You clenched around his cock and squirted all over the length, while he released his seed inside you.

“We’re definitely doing that again.”

#kelly nickels smut #kelly nickels x reader #la guns smut #la guns x reader #la guns #glam metal

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crsssie · 11 months ago

Text

doomed to fall, doomed to love

word count: 10.8k || banner art by @/retired-peach on insta

warnings: game-typical violence, mild eerie descriptions

summary: just how far can luck get everyone?

Fate is decided from birth, the Moirai weaving and threading the life of each one born, including the gods — something far preceding the existence of all, warmth and existence of night around the fates as she lets go of her daughters and her son.

There is no moving fate, and unless you were wise enough, there was no threading through the holes of life to abuse your aforementioned fate.

Moros understands the fates the most, his sisters raising him from youth, understanding that once a thread was cut, there was no way to restore it. Death would claim the soul, and they would live the rest of their days in the underworld. There is something far more concerning through all of it, his eyes curious as a child, watching as his sisters would tell him the fates of all those determined by it. The entire world would be in his hands as he watched his sisters thread and weave the fates of the world, strings twisting amongst each other to symbolize a meeting.

He had been shown his own string, one that could not be cut even if his sisters tried.

"Gods can not be cut, only threaded." Lachesis hummed.

"May I thread my string with someone else?" He blinks up, staring at the first thread of his life, the way it split from night's.

"Perhaps if you show us the desperation we seek."

Moros has no need to speak to anyone other than his assignments. When he approaches, someone is aware that their time is up. When he steps close to humans, most know that it is not far from the time that they will meet death. When he brushes his hands against a string, his sisters know that they do not have much time left. Even for Odysseus, when his fingers finally pinched at the string, the inevitable was coming, and it was more than apparent that there was a touch of doom to his skin, a touch of demise burned at his fingertips — fitting for the god people referred to as doom.

Even when he had doomed an entire family, his brother's assignments stacking until his own brother stopped functioning, he had not much of a reaction. Human emotion is fickle. The need to feel something specific was fickle. When his sisters threaded and weaved human lives like tapestry, he had no say or need to feel for the souls he would never meet. His portion was not in the house, but with his sisters, whom he both adored and feared, fingers reaching for strings when he deemed them fit. When he would bring the doom of one, then there would have been no say otherwise. Shortly after one's doom was always one's demise — death. Though, his younger brother had been out of service from the doom of his beloved. Perhaps he should not have messed with the string in the first place. Lachesis had felt bad, though Clotho had rambled about how amusing it was to her. There was no sibling relationship where unnecessary. Had night truly wanted them to feel for one another, she would have not sent everyone so far from one another.

Moros does not have time to stutter and stumble over fickle emotions.

"We have a small assignment for you," Atropos speaks. When she spoke, it always meant something important.

"Is it another thread?"

"No." She shakes her head, eyes closing. "Perhaps, you will find this one matters. Just let us do the weaving and do not touch the thread of this one."

Moros nods slowly, understanding his sisters as he is told where to go.

In the deep depths of the underworld, Moros is sent to greet someone in the depths of the underworld, a shade with something akin to charm that could have rivaled Helen of Troy. It did not matter to him, for all he was there to do was supervise. The shade had tried to escape the clutches of the underworld too many times, and it seemed that death himself could not stop them anymore, and perhaps doom could keep them in place and kill all hope that they would be able to slip onto the surface of the world. Moros finds it ironic that a person who could escape the fates would be left to his hands. Perhaps, this is fate as well.

So, your strand is tied into his hair, fastened to hide the existence of your fate in his hair, forever embedded in a part of him, perhaps. He knows his sisters have a plan for him, and he trusts that the most they would do is perhaps play a harmless joke, so he sits there as Clotho chatters about, detailing the shade and their life in Greece, fastening his hair into a delightful design as he stares at himself in the mirror, blinking slowly at the singular silver strand that reflects the light deeply hidden in the strands of his hair. He does not give so much of a reaction, thanking his sister instead, lips curled upwards sweetly that he always had, even as a child.

"Ehem." He coughs as he catches you sneaking to follow the prince through the gates to the temple.

"Oh... are you my new bodyguard? Doom?" You raise a brow, lips quirked up cheekily as he recalls the description given by his sisters. The prettiest human to have ever graced Greece. The person who had been so dazzling that perhaps they could lead nations to demise and countries to ruin. To him, such beauty was pointless. To him, his sisters will string the fate of the people around him, and there was no reason for him to care or attend to such pointless things. In such a way, perhaps he is apathetic to such things, but only a fool would be able to resist such a situation.

"Come on." You lean in to bat your lashes at him, grinning cheekily. "Please? Just one chance. I die to the lord each time anyway. Please?"

"No." He stares down at you through his own lashes, heart unmoving as you huff and stand straight.

"It's so boring here!"

"And the overworld is more entertaining?"

"Oh, gods, no." You wave your hand. "I prefer watching the young prince destroy the king in battle instead. Also, it is quite a sight to watch. Have you seen such?"

"I am afraid I am not in contact with neither the prince nor the king."

"Hm." You tap your chin, fingers reaching for Moros as he flinches back out of reflex, refusing to let you doom yourself in such a way. "Woah, woah. Formalest of apologies, doom. I was not aware you disliked being touched."

"No, that is not it." He sighs. "Do not touch me for the sake of yourself."

"Will I be cursed?"

"Perhaps there is a fate that is worse than death. Do not wish to find out."

"Hm..." You tap your chin again, leaning against the railing of your place as you stare down at the bull and king return to their original positions, willing to fight whomever had the guts. "Say, Doom."

"Yes?"

"If I defeat the bull man and the king, may the fates grant me a small wish?"

"I am not the fates."

"But surely, they sent you here?"

"I can not change fate."

"Surely, you can convince them?"

"I can not. They are far less forgiving than I."

You shrug anyway. "How about from you?"

"I do not gain much from watching you seek thrill, young soul."

"Perhaps you will. If you are entertained, shall you grant me a small wish?"

"And what might this small wish be?"

"I wish to meet the fates."

"That will not be possible."

"Then how about some knowledge about you? It does not need to be related to the fates. You are my new guardian, after all."

He blinks twice — which you take as a confirmation, hopping over the ledge of the seats in the colosseum, weapon forming in your hand as the king laughs at you for challenging the two. Moros settles in the crowd of shades, hood thrown over his head to cancel his identity, watching as your axe swings and swings, spinning in circles as you cut and tear at the other two shades, your laughter growing manic by the moment as you strike down the bull first, the shield clamoring as you strike again and again, aiming for his head. Doom sees the death of mankind often, though not the mania that was moreso visible on your face.

He ponders over just what he should tell you about himself. Perhaps that he was raised by the fates? Or that he knows not much of his mother? Or perhaps, he should tell you that the horns on his head are fake. He is not accustomed to getting to know others, so perhaps, your curiosity was warranted. For the doom of mankind himself to force a shade to stay still was more than entertaining enough. Perhaps he was sent here for the entertainment of his beloved sisters. Thus, when your axe finally slices through the king while he shifts, victory hangs over your head as you wink up at Moros. The crowd gasps as another shade swoons, and Moros understands perhaps why you were so valued even during your time alive.

"Help me up, would you, dearest doom?" You wave your axe to work as leverage, and Moros towers over instead, leaning down to grab your wrist to pull you back up. You flip back up with ease, the weight of your body long gone after you had become a shade.

What would he say in a situation like this? Well done? Good job? "Well job." He pauses. "My apologies. Good job."

You laugh, mouth open as your body shakes, hunched over as Moros collects himself and grimaces at his own awkwardness.

"Is that your fun fact? That you can't speak around people that even the gods are jealous of for their visage?"

"That is not, brave shade. There is no amusement in revealing such things at such haste."

"Then what would such a fun fact be?"

"The horns on my head," He hums, leaning down to tower over you. "Are not part of me."

"So they are part of your accessories?"

"You could frame it that way." He hums.

"Okay, well, fun fact about me." You point at yourself, axe dissipating as you hum. "You found the wrong shade, quite unfortunately. The fates did not send you to me."

Moros raises a brow.

"My sister recently broke out." You pause, glancing at the rest of the shades as you close your eyes. "There are two runaway shades, and quite unfortunately for you, it just so happens that my sister is the prettier of us two."

"And you, brave shade?"

"The distracter." You grin, hopping on your feet as you shift around him. "She'll be back in a little! Looks the exact same as me!"

Moros finds that there is another shade with the exact same visage as you, and she huffs when Moros approaches, stuck in place as she meets eyes with him and blinks rapidly.

"Fuck." She huffs. "Let me through, won't you? I only wish to fight the lord..."

"So you are the shade." He hums.

"Did my sibling tell you that?" She huffs. "I only wish to fight the lord. They are content with the bull and the king, but I am not. If I defeat him, then I would be granted immortality, no?"

"That is not how it works." He sighs. "You are no Odysseus nor Heracles. You can not escape the clutches of the fates."

Your sister only grins at him, knowing something that it seems he does not.

"Four slipped past the hands of fate and left the underworld." She points. "One controls the fates the same amount. Though, worry not. I am not that one."

"The fates will make sure you do not escape. My fingers will brush through your thread." He hums, pinching at the strand in his hair. The shine and luster fade immediately with the pinch of the strand, and your sister huffs, finding that her weapon has been removed from her hands and she is officially bound to Elysium. She grumbles, sulking on the side as the king and the bull return to fight the prince.

"Ah, would you look at that." She grins. "The prince got a helper."

The prince's blade slices through the bull as you spin, knocking again and again against the king's armor, bloodthirst visible even from where Moros is standing. If there were a personification of him to the people, it would have been you. He does not have the luxury of questions, watching as you finish the king as he turns around, the prince grabbing you as the two of you storm off. It is not his place to interfere. He has doomed your sister to stay in place forever. That is enough. His assignment is over, it is that simple.

He returns to his sisters, their fingers delicate as they discard of the string in his hair.

"I met the young girl's twin."

"We know." The smile.

"Do tell, sisters, who might they be?"

"A shade that is not to be worried over." Atropos is the one to answer. "It does not matter what that shade does, since their string has long been absent."

"Was it stolen?"

None of his sisters reply to his question.

"It is fine," Lachesis hums, rethreading your sister's string into the tapestry. "We only needed you to take care of that one."

"And not the one I met?"

"No." Clotho stares up at the remaining threads. "However, since you there is not much to do in the time being, feel free to visit the shade."

"That would not be possible. I would interfere with the young prince's day to day excursions." He recalls the way you had joined the prince so simply, almost as though it had been a normality.

"Is that so?" Lachesis grins, almost knowing something he does not.

"It worries me when you smile like that." He blinks.

"It does not hurt to visit the shade. We will summon you back for any needs."

"Can the human race live without doom?"

"Not if you doom everyone at once." Atropo points at a section of string. "Brush."

Moros brushes their strings with his hand, pinching some, brushing down others. The darkness that imitates death seeps into the strings of the living.

"Halt." Lachesis panics. "Moros, young child, that is quite enough."

He stares at the soldiers in war that he has just doomed.

"I wish he would have picked up some of my kind sentiment." Lachesis mumbles. "Off you go now, brother."

Moros ends up back where your sister is — in the stands in the final room of Elysium, watching as your axe mutilates and mangles the shield of the king, switching with the young prince of the underworld when he delivers a final blow to the bull. Your sister catches him up on what has happened since he left, and he watches as the prince takes you to lead you outside. You are not bound to Elysium, but you are bound to the underworld. A shade could not escape no matter how many attempts it took. Or, perhaps you were simply a shade that would die against the lord.

Moros nods at your sister as he follows you to the temple, staring at the prince as he blinks.

"Why, hello? Who might you be?"

Moros nods his head, holding out a boon for you instead, watching as you observe it.

"What happened to no shade leaves the underworld?"

"Perhaps it is the simplicity of being given free reign over you."

"Wow... your sisters must really love you." You mumble. "It is doom, your highness. Moros."

The prince nods. "Honored to meet you."

"Honored to meet you as well, your highness." He nods.

"Will this let me one-shot the lord?" You twist the boon into your axe, watching as the blades thread with the purple of doom's eyes.

"No, but it works similar to death." He takes a step back, bowing at the prince as he disappears from view.

"So... 9999 damage?"

"Your summon only does 3500, does it not?" You raise a brow.

"Yes. Perhaps you will escape unscathed this time from the underworld." The prince grins.

Moros watches as you kill the ruler of the underworld, the prince watching in awe as you accidentally snipe the lord himself with a concerned look on your face. To inflict doom on someone it different to the person, so the doom of the ruler of the underworld would have simply been to die without getting to fight. You glance at the boon on your axe, taking two steps back as you watch Moros appear before you.

"Doom."

"Did you enjoy the boon?"

"It is rather sly, you are aware? I may be punished for it." You speak, waving goodbye to the prince as he rushes to tend to his mother's cottage.

"Nothing the fates can not fix."

"That is a shame, dearest doom." You shake your head. "I am the determiner of my own fate."

"Is that so?" He raises a brow. "When your string resides with the fates?"

"Perhaps."

To Moros, it does not matter — he finds that it is just how you are. You thank him for the boon, offering to return it to him, but he shakes his head, following you as you rush into the overworld, settling yourself in the queen's cottage to tend to the plants with the young prince before he returns to the styx. You, on the other hand, make no move to return. Instead, you call the boatman to return you to your place, thanking him with a couple of obols as you wave goodbye to him.

To the fates, it only mattered when their conflicts were in conflict with their brother. They have no problem with the young one deciding his own fate — a benefit of being raised by them, perhaps.

Atropos notices the way Moros' string starts fraying ever so slightly.

"Should we worry?"

"No. If it falls, then it would simply belong to him. After all, he is our dear brother."

Moros glances at the threads of color in your hair reflected under the sun one final time before he returns to his sisters. Color, reminding him of something far too familiar for comfort. So, he listens to the order from his sisters, fingers brushing the correct strands, pausing when he goes to check on his own string. His own string is fraying, and although he would not die, it was still worrisome.

"Atropos, did I do something?"

"No, child." She shakes her head, continuing with the tapestry. "It seems there is something else causing it to wear down."

Moros stares at his string, watching as it frays further.

"Is this someone else's work?"

"That is for you to find out, dear child."

Moros returns next to you, boon still in your axe as you slam the bottom in the ground, the young prince landing a particularly lucky hit as both the bull and the king die, grinning at you with a thumbs up as he throws you over his shoulder to bring you with him. He lingers close to you, watching as the lord falls to your blade again, and you stay behind to greet him. Perhaps, you find it a formality — something he wonders if you would ever consider to be a routine to you. Perhaps he could weasel — no. To have such thoughts is not possible. He is moreso curious to know who just this interferer with fate is.

You tilt your head. "Much on your mind, dearest doom?"

"That is not the case. Why do you stay behind each time?"

"I prefer to spend as little time around the garden as possible when the prince is present." You glance at the fish that shows up, stabbing down with the bottom of your axe as you fish out a sturgeon. "Ever had fish?"

"Gods do not need to eat to survive."

"Doesn't stop the olympians from feasting and partying all day." You shrug, glancing at the fish. "I should get to the prince soon."

"Is that not a rare fish?" He raises a brow.

"Not sure." You hand the fish to him, the river denizen dying in his hand as you do, his brows pulled together in a furrow.

"Guess that fish's worst fate was to die." You step past the entrance to the underworld, pausing as you wait for Moros to follow after you.

Moros finds comfort in the strange silence you offer him, watching as you take over the garden as the young prince falls to the ground and returns to the Styx, your work only a short while after before the boatman comes to bring you back. His older brother does not care for the lord, it seems. Much like the Moirai, Chaon does not care whether or not the lord of the underworld cares for such small matters. You step onto the boat, him following after shortly, watching as you stab at another fish in the Styx, tossing it onto the boat as the boatman groans in disapproval.

"No fish in the boat?"

"Haaarhh."

You toss the fish back into the river, watching as it comes back to life.

"Shade."

"Yes, dearest doom?" You tilt your head, raising a brow.

"The strand snaking around your handle." He glances at the way a string shimmers from the inside. "What is it?"

"Oh?" You grin. "Surely you know, dearest doom."

"Is it the string from the Moirai?"

You grin. "My string has always been for myself."

"I was not aware that the fates gave shades their own string." They do not. Moros wonders if he can pry the truth from your lips so he does not need to break the trust he has established with you so far. Perhaps, he is hoping you'll be honest and truthful with him, telling him that you had stolen the string. Perhaps, he was foolish to think of you as a thief. Perhaps, he had just not wanted to acknowledge you as anything else.

You laugh instead, refusing him an answer.

Moros finds that it's a little worrying, but as he steps out of the boat and offers you his hand, he wonders if he could just play dumb.

You take his hand, thanking the boatman as you hand him the obol once more.

"Doomed now, are you not, brave shade?"

You glance at his hand, laughing. "Perhaps my doom is to fall in love with you."

Moros flushes with color at your words, cheeks warming and skin darkening with your flirty remark. "You worry me, brave shade."

"Am I interrupting your work?"

"I am but my sisters' helper." He hums.

"Mm. I see." You step foot back into Elysium, sliding down the cliff to find your residence. Moros follows after you, uncertain of how to go about all of this. Perhaps this is what his sisters meant when they had told him to visit you. It is not a visit, but a stay, perhaps. He is stuck by you, returning only on occasion, spending his days with you as you fight your way out of Elysium with the prince. He takes notice of the way you deactivate his boon while fighting on occasion, the prince's boons taking over for the most part, watching as it seems that there is always some higher deity playing the cards perfectly for the prince to win.

Moros wonders if you are some sort of deity since your thread is missing from the fates.

"Brave shade." He tilts his head, watching as you send the prince down the river.

"Yes, dearest doom?"

Perhaps there is a sense of realization at the name that you have given him, but he fights every single part of his body that reddens and flushes at the name that he should have grown used to by now. "Would you tell me how you received your thread?"

"I was born with it, dearest doom." You glance at your axe, waving as the prince returns with the satyr sack for the guardian. "I am not a thief nor a genius. I am simply lucky."

Moros wonders where he has heard that before.

"Will you take me to meet the fates?"

"I can not do that." He shakes his head, still, following you as you follow the prince to the fight with the lord. The prince wins without much aid, and you wave goodbye to him as he rushes off to the cottage, leaving you alone with Moros once again.

"Not at all?"

"There is no chance, brave shade." He hums.

You sigh, stepping past the gates of the underworld to the queen's cottage, helping out the prince before he passes. Though, this time, Moros finds that you do not leave.

"Are you not returning?"

"Mm..." You hum, lying down in the grass, eyes closed. "Just a little longer."

"And how much longer is this... longer?"

"Just lay on the grass. It is the queen's domain. There is no doom for the grass."

"Every other footstep of mine killed the grass, brave shade."

"The float." You yawn, closing your eyes. "Dearest doom, entertain my thoughts, would you?"

"And what might those thoughts be?"

"If I cut my own string, would I pass?"

"Only Atropos can cut the threads."

You sigh, reaching for his hand in the grass, lacing your fingers with him.

"You'll—"

"It is fine." You hum. "I will be fine, I assure you."

"Brave shade, pray tell, why do you not call me by name?"

"I fear that you will get attached to something fleeting." You hum, turning to your side to grin at him. "Just as I do not refer to you by name, you do not refer to me by name."

"And if I wished to?"

"That is a shame, dearest doom." You grin. "The fates would not allow that."

"And how would you know?"

"Call it instinct."

Atropos notices first — Moros' thread falls completely down, broken from both night's and their own threads, on the ground as Clotho picks it up to hold on to. Lachesis notices shortly after, watching as Atropos ponders over what to make of Moros' thread. They do not bring him back just yet, curious to see just how desperate he was to continue the arrangement with you, fingers laced with yours in the grass, his ability to doom torn away from him for the time being.

"I wonder how desperate he is." Atopos hums. "Let us start."

It happens all too fast.

Moros is called back, watching as the underworld falls to time, although safe with his sisters, he is unsure as to whether or not you are safe — and when he retrieves the list of minor prophecies, his sisters disappear as well. He is alone, he realizes. He stays at the crossroads with the young princess, stumbling and stuttering over his words, cursing himself when he remembers that he is no different than from when he first met you. Perhaps you are doing well elsewhere, but he can not help but think of you while at the crossroads.

It is until the princess brings back an axe that is eerily similar to yours as her weapon that Moros wonders if perhaps you are alive.

"Is this a different aspect, princess?" He tilts his head at the axe.

"Oh, why it is." She agrees. "The aspect of Tyche. It seems to help me dodge, and the weapon feels much lighter. Is there something wrong, Lord Moros?"

Moros shakes his head. "It looks familiar, that is all."

"Well, uncle gave me the awakening phrase."

Moros hums, tilting his head as the princess hands the weapon to him, letting him observe the axe as he notices his boon is still there, just dull.

"Do you wish for an enhancement?"

"Hm?" The princess tilts her head. "Is that possible?"

Moros reaches for his boon, purple glowing once more, threads reweaving across the blade, stopping when the boon glows and the princess tries swinging again, accidentally breaking something in the process, pursing her lips.

"Lord Moros, do tell... how much damage does this do?"

Moros averts his eyes. "You may want to ask war of such."

The princess blinks at him, jaw hanging before she closes her mouth. "Will I kill time?"

"I am unaware of how much health time has, thus I am unable to answer."

The princess returns much quicker, this time around, Moros glancing at her and bowing as she holds the axe and grins, almost wincing.

"How was the weapon, princess?"

"Who wielded it before me? It seems you know of its previous owner."

"The wielder was a shade I knew." He hums. "They were not bound to the underworld."

"Then, perhaps they were not a shade at all." The princess offers. "Perhaps, they were Tyche herself."

"There is no confirmation for such. Had it been such, I would have known." He pauses, brows furrowing as he notices the strand still wrapped around the weapon. "May I see it once more, princess?"

"Of course." He hands him the axe, watching as he forces his finger into the wrapping around the handle, expression darkening as he notices the lack of string. You are dead. Unless you had wrapped and stolen your own string embedded into your axe, there was no way you could have survived if someone else held onto your string.

"Is something wrong, Lord Moros?"

"There used to be a string of the fates embedded in the wrapping." He hands it back to the princess. "If the goddess contacts you through the weapon, do tell."

The princess nods. "Were they important to you, Lord Moros?"

Moros is quiet, closing his eyes. "A brave shade, they were."

"And you, to them? If I am not prying."

Moros goes quiet, averting his eyes instead.

"My apologies, Lord Moros."

"Do not fret, princess." He smiles. "May you defeat time once more."

"Thank you."

In a way, Moros wanders through the crossroads and wonders just how you were. It is unsafe to be in the house of the lord, but perhaps you are caught there. Or, perhaps as the other shades are, you are stuck where they are. He is unaware of if there is ever a possibility that you could have survived if you had not been a shade. The Olympians armed themselves relatively quickly, though failing again and again to defeat time. It is not an easy feat, he believes. While he is sure that the princess will succeed, he wonders if the princess will have the same luck that the young prince did in the days that he had fought alongside you.

When the princess returns, she is ecstatic.

"Lord Moros!" She rushes, and it feels a little strange to see the princess so overjoyed.

"Yes, princess?"

"The goddess contacted me!" She notes. "She sends you here greetings. Do you know her, perhaps?"

"Did she leave a message?"

"No, she had only mentioned your boon and to thank you. Perhaps the brave shade is none other than the goddess?"

"That would be quite the predicament, princess." He hums. "Though, I am sure there has to be a better explanation."

"Surely. I shall ask if I see her again." The princess hums. "Shall I convey some words?"

"I would like to meet the goddess, if possible."

"Oh, how surprising! I will convey such words. All the best." She waves, rushing off as Moros ponders over just what that greeting could mean.

Moros wanders about the crossroads, taking note of a handful of things, pondering over the things that you had once told him when you were with him. You adore the color of his eyes — finding that he looks best with longer hair, and despite your hatred for how his horns looked at times, you always helped it back on his head when he finished laying in the grass. When he catches reflection of himself in the waters, he ponders just for a moment whether you were lucky enough to escape the grasp of time.

When the princess returns, she brings news of the weapon.

"The one who provided the weapon is still alive." The princess reports.

"Alive? Provider?" Moros senses some strange sense of hope snake up his back. Perhaps, you are... alive. Perhaps, you... escaped. Perhaps, you were spared the cruelty that the rest of the house received from time. He wonders if he could ever recall the name of your beloved weapon that the princess now wielded. Hope, you had called her. He does not recall the goddess of whom had blessed it prior to holding his boon. It is a predicament, he finds.

"Yes." The princess hums. "I had run into a shade near the surface."

Moros frowns. It could be you, but he doubts that time would have given anyone the grace to flee or transform.

"The weapon has a name, according to the provider."

"Do you know of it?"

"No, I was not informed." The princess mumbles. "Though, the axe used to be a shield, according to the shade near the surface."

"A shield..." Moros mumbles. "Thank you, princess. I wish you luck on your next run."

Moros ponders just where his sisters might be. They had disappeared, leaving behind the threads in the room — all of them turning into webs for arachnids rather than strings that would resemble the strings of life. Perhaps, they had been restricted willingly rather than out of surprise. In order to throw off time, they had taken the sacrifice, and it bothers him to no end that perhaps they too are stuck in time. The human world must be in shambles at the moment. It must be exhausting to deal with so much at once.

"Lord Moros."

"Yes, princess?"

The princess pauses before asking. "What were the fates like?"

"Lachesis is kind, Clotho speaks often, and Atropos is the cutter."

"Mm." The princess nods. "Have you gone to the springs? They are good for relaxation."

"I suppose I am due for one, princess, but I am unable to do so at the moment." He smiles. "Shall I save the salts for some other time?"

"Up to you, Lord Moros." The princess smiles. "Best of luck."

When the princess returns to the shade, she finds that they are a person this time. Perhaps not the goddess, but similar in appearance, similar in beauty. The princess greets the goddess on the surface, coughing up blood and fighting every last doom in her body to be able to stay just long enough to invite the goddess back with her, the symbol of her boon replaced with a full moon as the princess coughs.

"Oh, dearest, what has happened?"

"Oh, goddess, I ask of you, would it be possible for you to return with me to the crossroads? Lord Moros has requested of your presence."

"It is a shame, I do not know how to get there without the boatman. Are you able to take us both, goddess?"

"Yes, I am." The princess offers, holding her hand out. "Though it will hurt since I must die for it."

The goddess laughs, taking her hand. "What is godhood if not a death every once in a while"

The princess returns, catching her breath as she blinks, squeezing her hand a little to see whether or not the goddess had come with her, pleasantly surprised when she has. She had not tried it before, but she supposed that

"You know, it's a real pain to travel like this all the time, princess. Why don't you just do it the olympian way and teleport?" They raise a brow, squatting down to catch their breath from the aftereffects.

"Unfortunately, this realm is only accessible by magic."

"Ought to hurry up and beat the life out of time, then." They sigh, standing up as Moros locks eyes with them.

"Dearest doom?" Their lips quirk up, stepping towards him as he blinks twice to confirm he's not as so desperate as to start hallucinating you. They do the work for him, fingers reaching for his bicep as their palm smoothes against his skin, his heart shaking as he stares at you, blinking slowly. It is an attachment. He does not have your string, nor does he have his own, yet he is here, heart rattling against the bars of his chest, staring down at you as you beam. "Dearest doom."

Moros knows it is not you. Your hands are warm and your body is the same, but he knows it is not you. To him, it is not you, it is someone else in your skin.

"... you are not the shade." Moros frowns, yet making no move to recoil from their touch. Your touch is the same, but you are not the same person. There is an uncanny feeling in his body as he takes a step back, blinking a second time. "I sealed you to Elysium. Did the Moirai send you here?"

"Ah, it's a shame. It seems you recognize our differences immediately." Your sister sighs. "Alas, a nymph can not imitate a god."

"There is no way they are a god."

"Perhaps." Your sister shrugs. "Though, I am unaware of their presence either. I only received the luck of fleeing with their weapon."

"And the shade?"

"Your brave shade is missing, doom incarnate." Your sister grins at the princess instead. "Apologies, princess, but I am not the one doom is looking for."

"Whom are you looking for, Lord Moros?"

"A brave shade." He hums. "They will recognize the name."

"Perhaps, once the underworld is restored, you will find them." The princess hums. "Nymph, do you know of said shade?"

Your sister shakes her head, turning to stare at the axe instead. "I may not be of help in finding the shade, but do grant me the honor of blessing their weapon, if you would."

"Of course." The princess watches as the nymph presses her hand to the weapon, blue swirling down the handle of the axe, water replacing where the thread of fate had once been, swirling up and down the weapon.

"It is not much, but it shall enhance the boons you receive from other olympians." She hums. "May your battle be smooth, and your wins be bountiful."

The princess nods, rushing off as your sister spares a glance at Moros.

"Do you miss them?"

"Miss is perhaps not the word."

"Long?"

"Along those thoughts." Moros hums. "Did you see them before the underworld was taken over?"

"I did not. I was handed the axe along with a blessing, and next I knew, I was in Olympus with the gods." She hums, watching as the princess leaves. "They are not as stupid as to vanish without a plan, however."

"Surely, they are alright." Moros pauses. "At the very least, still around."

"They are around. We are weakly connected by the same source, after all." Your sister hums.

"Pray tell, young nymph, of our brave shade?"

"Well, I do not know much of them." Your sister is frank. "All I knew was that they had found me in the underworld and adored smothering the prince in battle due to his hard-headedness. Perhaps they found the untameable tempting. To them, the prince was just another entertaining character in their life."

"Much like the fates, no?"

"I'm afraid not." Your sister pauses to think of her next words. "Similar, but not the same. There is nothing you can do in the face of luck, after all."

"The face of luck... surely they had blessed the prince with it?"

"Perhaps." Your sister quirks a lip up in the sneakiest of smiles.

And Moros wonders, just perhaps, you had loved her too.

When the princess returns, she greets the two with a bow, before starting with her report, bringing to light that her father was still alive, though chained. The two listen, eyes focused on the princess as she asks for aid of your sister.

"I can not help you with such, princess." She shakes her head. "Though, our brave shade did indeed mention noticing the cracks in the walls. You are never sure of what creeps between the tiles of the residence."

The princess takes note of watching the cracks in the wall, defeating time again and again, wondering as to which crack in the wall that shade could have been referring to. Though, near her fourth time, she takes note of the crack on the mural being larger, just enough for her to peek through the debris, seeing the same glow of doom and her magic behind, noting a singular shade stuck in place, unmoving. Dead. The shade does not move nor act, and it is stuck in place, staring into seemingly nothing as the princess continues observing for as long as she is able to.

Then, a snap of the neck, a meet of the eyes, and the princess leaves.

It is eerie. The shade does not look real, pupils dilated, missing a soul. The stare lacks life, though it seems as though the depths of the underworld were reflected in its eyes. It is a shade that keeps its human form, though not significant enough for the princess to actually note who they are. Perhaps, she would ask around, but she would not get the time.

"There is someone behind the mural in the main hall." The princess notes, glancing at your sister. "Is it them?"

"Do you remember the way they looked?"

"It is hard to describe, but those eyes... lacked a soul." The princess looks down. "It is a shame. I shall see if I may get a better look."

When the princess defeats time once again, she takes note of the crack in the wall, peering behind it as he spots the shade once more. That enough is an incentive, her magic blasting through the wall as she steps through, staring as the shade mutters quiet nothings to themselves, pupils dilated, quiet mumbling heard by no one. The princess stares, watching as the shade takes a step forward, eyes widening further at the sight of their weapon. The princess takes another step back, staring at the webs across the room, webs of what she can only assume as string similar to a spider's weaving across the room with the shade in the center.

"Elpis... Elpis." They scramble, reaching for the weapon as the princess jumps back, ready to attack. Rather, the axe does not listen, halting as the shade steps forward again, chains around their feet stopping them as they drop to their knees and stare at the weapon in the princess' hand. The princess stays still, hearing time tick behind her as she is forced to flee, trying to pull the weapon with, only to realize it has started making its way towards the shade.

"No!"

"Elpis." The shade cradles the weapon, forcing the princess to flee without it.

In her final glance, she notes the way the block around the shade seems to shatter, and the mural rebuilds itself — the princess wondering just who the shade was.

Once returned to the crossroads, your sister seems unimpressed.

"I lost my weapon." She stares up at both your sister and Moros, dejected, brows furrowed.

"The weapon must have heard its name." Your sister hums. "It is unknown, as only the owner of the weapon, in this case, our brave shade, can call for it."

"It must have been a bad memory." The princess mumbles.

"I doubt it." Moros watches the summoning grounds of the crossroads. "I shall keep an eye out for them. They have always been lucky."

When the princess returns a second time, she enters once again, noting how the webs have disappeared and the shade has started threading with the string.

"Dear shade."

They continue to mutter to themselves, pupils dilated as they continue knitting with two of the hardened strings from the weapon, the axe now discarded to the side.

"Dearest shade, may I retrieve the weapon?"

They do not spare her a glance, fixated on the weaving of the tapestry in their hand.

The princess retrieves it anyway, watching as the shade looks up to stare at her, unbothered, unimpressed, a stare unnerving the princess.

"Dearest shade... are you bound?"

They stand up, shackle around their ankles worn out from time, and they pull along the thread, following the princess with her weapons as they pull and pull, pulling until all of the threads weaved across the roof of the room are in their hands, rushing after the princess as she brings them to the crossroads. The threads all follow them through the magic, landing on the ground with a heavy thud as they settle themselves in the corner to continue weaving.

Moros recognizes your soul at an immediate glance, leaving his place to help you untangle the string in your hand, stopping when he remembers he knows not of whose thread is whose and who he is dooming.

"Brave shade."

You are not a brave shade anymore, pupils far too dilated to be safe, hands brash as you untangle the threads, coverings on your hand as you pull and pull, laying each thread to the side as you continue searching. You are looking for a thread, and whether it be yours or his, he is unaware, but from the few threads weaved through your hair, he finds that perhaps you are not searching for either of your strands.

"My sisters." Moros rests on one knee, glancing at you as you do not react to him. "Are they safe?"

You ignore him, continuing with the string, work frantic and paced as you continue threading through them.

"Who are you searching for?" Your sister helps you sort, and you glance at her, voice scratchy, barely a whisper, as you speak.

"T-time." You start again, discarding thread after thread as your sister sits down to help you.

"Whose threads are these?" She hands you another one, pausing when you barely muster an answer once more.

"N-non." You continue, reading the threads between your fingers as Moros is forced to stare. He finds himself glad that he did not rush immediately to help you out. If all creatures other than the humans' threads were in your hands, then surely there could have been bad news had he doomed the wrong one.

"Go on." Your sister stares at the princess. "You must continue to fight while we continue with this. May Elpis guide your way."

The princess takes the axe, rushing back towards the underworld as she takes one final glance at the three of you.

"Do you have Atropos' scissors? You can destroy one's godhood with one pair."

You glance at Moros, baring your teeth as he blinks.

"You have become the scissors."

He notes down who you have found, watching as you bite certain strings and rip them. In a way, you have become someone he does not recognize. You bite and tear at certain strings, and he wonders if it is to help the princess or to destroy the trouble in the underworld, but as you find that golden string of time, he watches as you hand it to him, eyes wide as he blinks.

"I am not able to doom a titan."

You shove it at him once more, watching as he takes it from your fingers, the parts that he holds turning dark.

"Keep it." Your sister stares at the way he holds it.

You stand up, holding your hand out for his, wrapping the string around his fingers as though it were some sort of decoration. He wears it, glancing at the way your fingers seem so much softer than during the times that you wielded an axe, almost as though you had been forced to regress in time and become someone who knows neither him nor anyone else. Perhaps, this is who you simply are now. Perhaps, you will return once time is broken.

"Doom." You blink at him, reaching back for your project as you thread and thread again.

"Dearest, doom." He tries, and you blink at him, unreceptive of his words.

"Doom." You point at the decoration on his fingers, staring as the entire string turns dark.

"My time is up," Your sister stares at her fading fingers. "Stay safe. I must return to Olympus now that you are here."

You nod at her, waving as she disappears. Perhaps deep down, you are still aware of the bond that you shared with your sister. While he is not family to you, she is — so it is really not all that much for you to remember that she is your sister, trust placed in her so much more vivid than the one placed in his hands. It is deserving, he finds. You have forgotten all of the time that you spent with him due to the regression in time. Rather, you still trust him enough to brush your fingers against his skin and understand that his doom will not hurt you.

"Brave shade."

You stare up at him, batting your lashes as he stares.

"Brave shade." He tries again. "How are my sisters?"

You tilt your head.

"The fates. The Moirai. How are they?"

You blink at him. "Safe. Moved. Safe."

"Moved." He exhales. "Then why do you hold the strings?"

You stare at him blankly, going back to weaving. It is as though you are possessed, but it reminds him of someone his sisters once had mentioned to him. Someone who had weaved the fates during the times that they had been raised by mother night. Perhaps, you have become them. There is a sense of uneasiness as you settle down next to where he typically stands — next to the prophecies as you thread and weave, fingers making quick work, only greeting the princess with a quick nod while you listen to Moros speak to the princess.

"Lord Moros, how long do you suppose I am stuck fighting time?"

"Twenty four." You speak instead, still working on the paper. "Every hour."

"Once each hour?" She blinks, horror written all over her face.

"Cycle. Rotation." You go back to weaving, going quiet as the two ponder over your words.

"Princess, how many times has it been?"

"Well over twelve."

"Then, twelve more times." He closes his eyes. "We are the closest you can be to the fates at the moment."

You thread another string through, watching as the princess leaves.

"Brave shade, do you believe she will succeed?"

"Must."

Your words are more than enough comfort for Moros as he watches the princess return again and again. Must. Not yes, nor no. You have just enough faith in the princess that she will succeed, even if it kills her. The gods can not die, you seem to be aware. Even while brushing your own hair, covering of your hands missing at times of such, strings in your hair glowing with each brush of your fingers.

"Lucky shade." He hums. "Dare I say, lovely shade."

You pay no mind to his words, tugging at the string and throwing the tapestry out to check the design.

"For someone?"

"No." You go back to it, focused the entire time through as Moros continues to greet the princess. She reaches her final leg of the run, close to ten, though, you stop her before her final run, staring up at her as you offer her the tapestry in your bare hands, marks from the weaving and threadwork visible on your hands as you try to get up — only to stumble from your lack of muscle.

"You're alright, lovely shade." Moros catches you, steadying you as you hand it to the princess.

"Cover time." Your instructions are simple, and it makes Moros wonder just who you were. The princess leaves her axe with you, leaving with her weapon. Perhaps, you knew the fates similar to the way he did. Though, as you settle back onto the floor, threading your fingers through your hair with a closing of your eyes, waiting for the moment that the princess would follow your orders, and you would be freed for enough time to give her proper instructions you had learned on pure chance while collecting the threads of fate in the room.

There is a sudden strike of the bong of doom as the princess follows your orders, and you waste no time racing through the underworld — gone in a blink of the eye as you steal the axe, Moros feeling every slash of your weapon as a result of his boon, your summon of him too quick for him to react, only arriving once you enter the residence. He dooms the shades that would have attacked, standing guard as you reach the princess.

"Stay still, princess." You tie the bottom of the orb, axe striking down as his soul shatters, body no longer capable of hosting his soul as you tie the pieces into the threads of the tapestry. There are never enough sacrifices — never enough people with a soul as shattered as time's. You order the princess what to do, and for the first time, Moros wonders if he is the servant or you. It seemed that you always knew how to outplay fate just by a slight step.

The princess listens surprisingly well to you, following your orders as you hand Moros the tapestry you wove.

"Take this to the fates. They have returned."

"And you are certain, lovely shade?"

"Certainly, my Moros." You turn to stare at him. "Drop not even a single piece."

"You can not order the Moirai as such."

"Tell them the brave shade ordered it. Go on." You bare all your teeth at him once more, teeth no longer metal to cut life, eyes back to the familiar look that Moros had grown so used to. He takes note of the lack of threads in your hair this time, finding them in a satchel instead. Moros takes everything you instruct him to, returning to where his sisters once resided.

His sisters are back, surprisingly. They waste no time in glancing at the thread of time woven around Moros' fingers, chuckling as they put everything back up, staring at the tapestry of dead strings and fragments of time, wondering if there was something their sweet brother had wanted them to do with it.

"The brave shade." He pauses. "Mentioned you would know what to do with such."

Lachesis laughs, taking the package from Moros as she kicks open one of the boxes. The package is dropped within and sealed away.

Moros blinks at how even Atropos cracks a smile.

"Should I know something... of the shade?"

"Worry not of them." Clotho hums. "They are the sly one, that shade."

"Did you employ their help?"

"No. Though, it would be best for you not to know."

Atropos places her scissors down, retrieving a string as she places it in his hands.

"Mine own?"

"We have seen that desperation that so wracks through your body." Lachesis hums. "You asked us once, if your string could be in your possession."

Moros takes it, staring at the thread of doom in his fingers, pondering just what he could do with it.

"Now, go on. You have little time while we reorder everyone's fate." Clotho hums. "Go on."

"Much obliged and appreciated, dearest sisters."

Moros makes his way back to you, watching as you break the constraints of time with your axe, luck perpetually on your side as everyone comes out unscathed, even as far as barely missing the feet of the lord himself with the breaking of his chains. You do not give instructions to any of them, only bowing and staying quiet as you lead them back to the hall, eyes glued on the prince as he reunites with his lovers and family. A gentle nudge from you is enough for the princess to join them, a smile on your face as you grin.

"What is after this?"

"Nothing much, my Moros." You glance up at him, grinning. "Death is restored."

"It shall take some time for them to be able to rest."

"We are aware. Shall we return to the meadows?"

"Perhaps in time." You meet eyes with the lord, bowing as he nods.

"Olympus seeks thee."

"I will be there, your majesty." You bow. "I trust you shall do well with the fates for the time being."

"I suppose." Moros nods. "I have a gift for you, from the fates and I, lovely shade."

You stare up at him as he loosens a thread from his hair, placing it in your hands as you stare at it. You hold onto it, loosening a thread from your hair as well, grin on your lips as you twist the two together, letting your axe fall as you wrap the handle once more. That enough has you pleased, lips curled upwards as Moros watches the string replace the water once more. Now, rather than the string of your own fate from long ago, it is both of you entwined for eternity.

"Now, you are with me all the days, wherever I go."

"Do not break it, lovely shade."

"I would not dream of it, my Moros."

You assist the princess in the overworld, letting the princess last as long as possible with the blessings from Olympus, on the final stretch now that time itself was destroyed. His loyal subjects and the dead struggle more now that their ruler is gone, falling in greater numbers and failing to get up as you back the princess up. In a way, it almost reminds you of the prince and his runs again and again. Perhaps, you were simply fated to take care of the two. You had long forgotten your age, after all.

"Princess," You glance at her, offering her a hand as she catches her breath. "Take a small break here."

She heaves, grumbling to herself as she reasons with you that she must go on."

"There are no reinforcements coming from time's side." You nod. "I assure you. How is your weapon?"

"I am alright. Thank you... shade?"

"Brave shade is fine." You nod.

"Pray tell, if I am not prying, of your relationship with Lord Moros?"

"It is hard to describe." You hum. "I am not too certain of it either. Perhaps the answer will find us both eventually."

The two of you work your way up to Olympus eventually, helping clear out the remainder of the troops and breaking through the siege with ease, laugh on your lips as the bong of doom rings again and again with each swipe of your axe. You become something akin to a sign of doom despite the nature of your presence for certain people. Are you violent? Perhaps. You prolong the ability of the princess to stay on the surface and Olympus, fingers smoothe against your axe as you cough up the grime from all of the blood on you. You smell of metal.

"We have arrived, it seems, good shade." The princess stares at the gates, and you grin.

"Shall we?"

"If you would." She pushes open the gates, blood following where she goes, gunk around her as she grimaces at the attacks. You find that she is stronger than her brother in that sense. She is capable of undoing the incantation of the fates — fighting even up to Olympus. It is commendable, you find. You are sure the prince would have liked to have been able to break free of the fates in such a way. Though, as the princess finishes the rest of the forces alongside the Olympians, you find that there is not much to worry of.

"I wonder if the prince could do the same." You open your arms for your sister, a relieved cry on her lips as she sighs.

"You're back."

"Yes. Time has been restored."

"Restored or destroyed?"

"Something akin to that." You hum. "Worry not. The fates hold time now."

The concerned look on your sister's face is more than enough to make you laugh.

You leave the princess with a bow, returning to the underworld, back to Elysium where your cottage is, lips pulled into a grin as you find Moros waiting for you. He stays outside your door, almost as a guard, though not quite one. You stand there, waiting for him to take notice and open his eyes from a moment of rest. You find it amusing that what the mortals feared so much was resting simply outside of an abode that you reside in.

"My Moros." You raise a brow as Moros looks up at you, getting off his knees. "Join me for a little? It appears both the princess and prince are fighting their way out at this time.

"Has Elysium been restored?"

"It appears so." You grin. "The princess had returned shortly after I had."

"How long had you been watching me?"

You grin.

"Then, I suppose if that is what you will for, I shall comply. I have just a handful of time before I am to return to my post."

"May I join you after?"

"Perhaps another time."

Thus, Moros finds himself back in the colosseum where he first met you, watching as you glance at both the prince and princess fight the bull and king. The colors remain the same, and in a way, time has been restored, back to how things should be. Had he not been there for it, perhaps he would have thought of the fall of the house as something that could have been written in the myths. He is sure the princess would have told Homer to be quiet in such a situation, but he finds that she is too occupied with dealing with the king, trying what her brother had done so many times.

"Say, my Moros." You turn to glance at him, his own heart racing as you grin at him. To him, there is no greater luck than to be able to spend time with you. Even when his sisters call him every now and then for the doom, he finds that he prefers spending time in your presence, staring at the threads in your hair as he reminded of his own sisters, some strange sense of familiarity deeply embedded in your own souls and threads as he stares at his thread entwined with yours, always. "Moros?"

"Yes, lovely shade?"

"Will you grant me some knowledge of you if I were to defeat the bull and king?"

"Not to meet the shades this time?"

"No, my Moros." You grin. "Knowledge of you."

"You possess the thread of my fate, why fight the king and bull for something I can give you?"

"So you would tell me well job again." You hop down, axe forming in your hand much like the first time you fought in Elysium while he was present — except this time, Moros is aware of what to tell you. Even if he does not profess it, he is sure that you would know better than anyone of such emotions. He is certain that you would not turn him down — your own emotions embedded deeply in the acceptance of his fate with yours. To him, perhaps you will spend eternity beyond together, his hands only warm against your skin and not harming. He has little to worry of, yet he offers you the choice anyway because he loves you.

You finish both the bull and the king, waving at Moros as you wave your hand for a lift upwards, his hand warm against yours as you settle next to him, grin on your face indicating and awaiting an answer to your request. You blink up at him expectantly, wondering just what it was that would take him so long to answer you to. Though, as his skin flushes with warmth from the time you had spent together, he hums.

"Knowledge of me, lovely shade?" He holds onto your fingers, thumb brushing your knuckles as he closes his eyes to think.

"Nothing left, that I do not know of?"

"That I adore you to the ends of the fates, perhaps." He hums, clumsy smile on his face as you blink at him.

"Truly?"

"Truly, truly, do I adore you." He smiles. "Until time itself dies, do I adore you."

"Enamored, even?" You tease, watching as his skin darkens from embarrassment, words still coming out nonetheless.

"Why of course." He hums. "After all, you are stuck with me for eternity now."

"Then eternity it shall be."

#☾.fics #SURPRISE MF GUESS WHO'S HERE TO KICK OFF THE TAG WITH A BANGGGG (two nickels now HAHAHAHA)#moros x reader #moros hades x reader #hades 2 x reader #hades x reader #hades 2 #hades #reader insert #hades game #hades game x reader

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