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whimsyfinny · 6 months ago

Text

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: Charlie discovers the Winchester boys to be struggling with keeping the bunker tidy, looking after themselves and being able to do their job simultaneously. Luckily she has a friend who’s from a Hunter family that is in need of work and can help them with research. Or so she thought that’s what her job would be. When Dean sees your more domesticated side, his head won’t stop swimming with all the wrong ideas.

Slow burn, enemies to lovers, smut

Warnings: language

Chapter Word Count: 2288

—-MDNI—-

A/N: AHHHHHHHHH IM SOOOOOOOO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG ITS NOT EVEN A SPICEY CHAPTER… I hope it’s ok! Let me know of any errors as I’m the only proof reader .

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Please read the below:

Prologue Chapter 1

Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Chapter 4 Chapter 5

Chapter 6 Chapter 7

Chapter 8pt1

Chapter 8pt2

Chapter 9

I’m Not Your F*cking Maid

Chapter 10

I stood in the kitchen over the stove, the smell of bacon tickling my nose as it sizzled in the pan. Watching the fat and grease splutter, my mind replayed the rapturous events of last night with every tantalising memory bringing heat to my skin and fluttering to my pulse. The simple thought of Deans hands on me set my whole body aflame. Not to mention that I woke up in his room, in his arms, listening to his soft breathing as he slept peacefully - not a single crease between his brows as he slumbered unburdened. I had crept out, not wanting to torment myself by staying by his side until he awoke.

I had eaten breakfast alone; neither of the boys rising early enough for us to eat together, so I tucked in whilst the food was still hot. I was a mixture of grateful and ungrateful in this instance. Grateful, because I could be left alone with my sinful thoughts - and ungrateful, because I didn’t want to be left alone with my sinful thoughts. They were driving me insane, spinning around and around inside my head. I desperately needed to remind myself that Dean Winchester was an insufferable jackass who seemed to be making it his life’s mission to get under my skin. And I couldn’t let him.

Oh Bobby, if you could see me now, you’d be so disappointed in my life choices…

I had just tidied the kitchen and placed the food in the fridge when I heard the front door open and close and I made my way to the main room - Charlie appearing at the top of the stairs wielding half a dozen shopping bags.

“Good morning bitches!” She beamed as she began making her way down, right as Sam and Dean strode in, sleep weighing on their features. I opened my mouth to respond but my gaze snagged on Dean, who was already looking at me and my words evaporated in my mouth. We stared at each other, both of us with a sort of dumbfounded look about our faces. Charlie stepped next to me, looking between us.

“I said… good morning bitches! No? Anyone?”

Without saying a word I grabbed her hand through the countless loops of shopping bag handles and dragged her through the bunker until we reached my room. I pushed her through the door and slammed it behind us, leaving the frenzy in the hallway as we looked at each other in silence. I huffed out a sigh, running my hands through my hair before cupping my cheeks. She dropped the bags and sat on the edge of my bed.

“What’s going on with you? Are you ok? You see-”

“I fucked Dean.”

“No!”

“Twice.”

“NO!”

I nodded and sat next to her as she jumped up, a wild look on her face.

“You fucked the guy you beat the shit out of?”

I nodded again, biting my lip and cringing.

“I thought you hated him?”

“I do. I mean, I don’t hate him. He just infuriates me so much.”

She pauses for a second, smirking and raising her brows as she sits down beside me.

“Was it good?”

I closed my eyes and breathed out, memories flooding my brain.

“Oh my God Charlie you have no idea…” I crisscross my legs and face her, and she does the same. We look like a couple of teenage girls talking about our high school crushes at a sleepover.

“That good?”

“It was the best sex I’ve ever had in my life. He’s ruined me,” I sighed as I saw her wicked expression, her gaze flitting between myself and the shopping bags abandoned on the floor.

“What?”

She picked up one of the bags and plunged her hand in, fishing around for a second before pulling out an outfit. There were… bunny ears?

A slutty bunny outfit was thrown onto the bed, the bodysuit crafted with expertise and soft black velvet, with shaping-bones ascending the bodice and plush padding in the bra cups. The white cuffs were made of soft, pressed cotton, and amongst it all I spotted a little fluffy tail.

“Why have you bought me a Playboy outfit?” I raised an eyebrow, unable to stop myself from finding out if the tail was as soft as it looked. It was. Charlie beamed.

“Because the girls at this club are known for their irresistible aesthetic. You’ll need to blend in. But don’t worry,” she gestured to the other bags, “if you don’t want to be a bunny I bought you more.”

“Of course they wear outfits…” I groaned, knowing that the boys will never let me live this down.

“Plus…” Charlie wiggled her eyebrows suggestively, “now that I know you’re FINALLY getting laid, you can actually put these towards their intended use.”

I smirked and threw a pillow at her.

“Oh yeah? And when was the last time you got laid?”

She rolled off the bed dramatically before throwing the pillow back at me.

“A lady never tells!”

“Bullshit!” I laughed, before grabbing the outfit off the covers and headed to the bathroom to try it on.

The afternoon passed by quickly, most of it spent trying on those ridiculous outfits that Charlie had bought for me. I must have tried on a dozen, ranging from ‘let’s only cover flaps and nips,’ to ‘you’re gonna need x-ray vision’. I went for something in between, not too scandalous but enough skin on show to get the wolves howling. Charlie lounged around on my bed reading comics and muttering to herself whilst I busied away getting ready, doing my hair and makeup and quadruple checking that this ridiculous outfit wasn’t going to spontaneously explode off my body. Overall the whole ordeal took around five hours from start to finish - six if you include lunch and coffee breaks, and six and a half hours if you took into account all the occasions that Deans ego led him to believe that we ‘might need a mans opinion’ on the matter. Said ego had many a door slammed in his face.

Evening had rolled around and I pulled a long coat over myself - another gift from Charlie - making sure that it covered everything not meant for outside a club environment. Or Comic Con, actually, because I eventually learnt that Charlie had purchased this particular outfit from a cosplay website. It explained a lot to be honest. From the quality fabric to the delicate lace trims and tiny petticoats, it was made to a much higher standard than anything else she’d brought with her. Adorning the final touch upon my head, I exited my room before joining the others in the research room, my heels clicking softly on the hard floor.

Upon arrival, all eyes were on me. On my face, my cloaked body, my exposed calves and heeled feet. It was like every other gaze in this room was trying to see through the wool of the overcoat concealing the surprise beneath; a present to be unwrapped… a meal to be devoured. I wasn't sure who to look at, every set of eyes hot with expectation so I chose to study the ribbons on the top of my stilettos, observing in great detail how the fabric shined in the dim lighting. A moment passed before Sam cleared his throat.

“Come on guys, let's get going.”

It should have been Sam that I looked at when I replied, but my eyes were drawn to Dean like a compass to North. His jaw was tight and his eyes dark, as though it pained him to not know what I was wearing. Although he could have been thinking anything really, as we hadn't exactly spoken much since the tantalising events of the previous night and we definitely hadn't spoken about what had happened. I think we were both well aware of the dangerous situation we were putting ourselves in, despite trying to act oblivious to any consequences. We both knew at some point the conversation needed to be had.

“Yes,” I replied to Sam, my voice cracking from the anxiety starting to crawl up my spine, “let's get going before I freeze to death.”

The car ride was quiet. Too quiet. Dean was in a weird headspace and didn't crack any of his usual jokes or poke fun at anyone in the car. Sam hadn't made eye contact with me since I gave him the dance, and whenever our eyes met his face erupted into a red-hot blush. Tapping away on her tablet, Charlie paid no mind to any of the silence at first, both of us in the back seat minding our own business. However after a long wait at a red light, she glanced over at me before pulling out her phone and tapped away. It didn't take long for my own phone to vibrate. Retrieving it from my pocket, I opened the message from her.

Chazzie: wtf is going on with you and these guys?

I sighed and wrote my reply.

Me: it's a long story… and tbh I didn't give you all the details about me and Dean…

Chazzie: bitch this is a long drive, tell me! I know Sam won't look at you and Dean won't STOP looking at you. And I know Dean, he's normally a ‘no strings’ kinda guy. But bitch you've got that man on a leash.

I sighed again, throwing her a look before giving in and typing away.

Me: so Dean made me annoyed and told me I would be no good for this mission because he doubted I could even do a basic lap dance. Well, it ground my gears so yesterday evening I put on some music and gave a lap dance to prove my point.

Chazzie: ooh I bet he was in heaven, I remember when you took those classes! You were soooo good <3

Me: awww thanks babes <3 but I didn't give the dance to Dean… I danced for Sam…

I heard her choke on her own spit as she read the message and she threw me a disbelieving look.

Chazzie: WHAT?! Why Sam?! I mean it explains why he won't look at you. But whhhyyy? When you've already fucked D-boi?

Me: tbh I was mad at Dean and I wanted him to suffer. Plus I had a point to prove, he needed to be able to see the show to know I was good.

Chazzie: I mean that's true! How did he take it when you danced for Sam?

Me: tbh I don't think he was best impressed at first, but then I think he just enjoyed the show. … I do feel a bit bad for Sam tho for dragging him into his. I feel bad for using him.

Chazzie: don't! I can tell he loved every minute of it from the permanent blush on his face hehehe. You're a wicked woman tho. Really torturing those boys. How long did it take for Dean to come to your room?

Me: ughhh don’t even joke… you make me sound like I'm in some shitty YA novel… and technically he didn't come to my room. I bumped into him in the corridor. Then he told me he ‘couldn't stop thinking about me’. The we made out and then we eventually fucked in my room.

Chazzie: Welp somehow you've made Dean Winchester your bitch. Gold medal for you, because I've seen soooo many girls try and fail. So did he wake up in your room or did he go back to his? Because this is fucking important.

I looked at her and felt my face heat up, a grin appearing on her face as she playfully smacked my arm.

Chazzie: bitch seriously?! He stayed the night?!

Me: technically no… my sheets were ruined so we slept in his bed instead …

Before anymore texts could be exchanged, I felt the car slow to a stop and the handbrake engaged, engine flicking off. Dean turned to face us, doing a double take over my blushing expression and Charlie's wild grin. He mumbled something under his breath about this making him nervous before he faced forward again and Sam turned around instead, his soft gaze scanning my made-up eyes and lips.

“Are you sure you're ok with this (Y/n)? Because it's still ok for you to back out now if you want.”

The older Winchester tore his gaze away from the lone two-storey building before us; its neon lights reflecting in the puddles on the pavement. Two guys in leather jackets stood outside, and I'm assuming they were security. Dean's expression turned to one of unease as he surveyed the club from a distance.

“Exactly what Sammy said. (Y/n) this is dangerous and I don't want you going in there. Back out now.”

I couldn't help but scoff and roll my eyes.

“I've not gotten this far and this fucking dressed up to give up now. Besides, my safety isn't as important as the safety of the civilians who are at risk of leaving these vamps even a day longer. You know that. That's why we do this job-”

“Look, your safety is all I give a shit about.”

Dean's assertiveness came as a slight shock, not just to myself but to him as well. We blinked at each other before I turned to Charlie.

“Do you have the paperwork and ID I need to get in?” I heard Dean sigh and turn back to face the steering wheel, cursing under his breath. Without saying another word, I took the envelope from Charlie's grasp and flung the door to the impala open, clambered out and slammed the door behind me.

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Up Next: Chapter 11

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doumadono · 1 year ago

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can i ask for endeavor eating his gf out

SINFUL SUNDAY

Enji's skilled tongue worked with astonishing swiftness, while his calloused fingers deftly opened your entrance. Your arousal, akin to the slow, sensuous cascade of melting ice cream, trickled down, and he pursued every drop with the tip of his tongue. In this intense moment, he was utterly immersed in his senses, every fiber of his being fixated on you.

Endeavor could hear the soft, desperate panting escaping your lips, a symphony of your pleasure filling the room. He could witness the sinuous dance of your body, caught in the rapture of his expertise. Every movement, every arch, and every quiver of your form spoke volumes to him, an eloquent testament to the overwhelming sensations he bestowed upon you.

Sensations deepened as he felt your skin grow warm and slick beneath his ministrations, a shimmering sheen of sweat and a pulsating heartbeat that echoed in his fingertips. Yet, above all, it was the exquisite aroma and flavor of your essence that consumed him. The intimate taste of your ambrosia was the most precious elixir, a feast for his senses that left him intoxicated and utterly captivated by the symphony of your pleasure.

Enji had spread you open wider and delved his tongue into your wetness. Moving up, down, left, and right, he explored you blindly. Creating moist, heated circles with his tongue, he sensed your thighs quivering and your rear clenching.

"Just like that, Enji," you encouraged him, slipping one of your hands into his hair.

Suddenly, your back had arched as he touched that spot of pure arousal and passion with his tongue. The feverish rubbing of your fingers over your clit had paled in comparison to the way his starved tongue had connected with your clit. Its sanctuary had felt like a nook designed by the divine for his tongue. You had shuddered and moaned. You had wanted to cum? Not yet.

Todoroki had slid his tongue into your pussy and had literally drunk the fluid out like a thirsty animal. He had been fucking you with his skilled tongue and nuzzling your clit, just barely brushing it with a slow rhythm while he had dug his tongue as deep and hard as it would go into you.

Your tight pussy had squeezed against Enji's tongue, pushing it out instinctively, only to guide it back to your aching clit. The strokes against it had quickened, yet remained steady, applying just the right amount of pressure to avoid any raw sensations. His aim had been endurance, but his own intense desire to please you had outpaced the capabilities of his mouth.

The washings of his tongue had proven almost too much for you to bear, and your legs had involuntarily squeezed his head in sheer pleasure. Todoroki's ears had burned, and the excitement had caused him to release precum into his fitted shorts. You had reluctantly released his head from your legs, only to use your hands to press Enji firmly into your moist lap. Instead of air, he had happily breathed in the silky flavors of your pussy.

"Oh God, Endeavor," you had whined, your body still spasming from the overwhelming pleasure.

Enji had bitten your thigh, using it as a way to distract and punish you. His movements were precise, driven by his desire to control his own pleasure. He began by tracing his tongue along your extended clit in wide, arcing motions, soothing it before gradually transitioning to the area of your hood. With a narrow tongue, he circled it in tight, tantalizing circles. Enji had no intention of leaving you in this moment.

As he worked his magic, you barely noticed the finger caressing the outside of your buttocks, sliding up and down your crack in perfect sync with his passionate kisses. Todoroki's tongue made a sudden leftward dart, changing direction to keep you on your toes. He then lifted his head to blow a sweet breath across your clit, prompting your hand to make a second feeble attempt to satisfy your desires.

"You're quite the minx, darling," he chuckled darkly. Enji interlocked his hands with yours, pulling them down towards your thighs, urging your hips to thrust into his face. The sensation of his tongue, hard and fast, against your slit made you moan with pleas for release. Those whimpers were his reward for prolonging your ecstasy. He continued to work his tongue vigorously against your clit before it slipped into your heated cunny, tongue-fucking you while humming lowly.

In a matter of seconds, you climaxed, tensing and shuddering as you came, your thick juices gushing out of your pussy. A primal scream escaped your parted lips as you rolled your head back, surrendering to the waves of pleasure that washed over you.

#doumadonos sinful sunday 🔥#sinful sunday #mha smut #bnha smut #my hero academia smut #anime smut #smutty blurb #sinful sunday anon #divider by cafekitsune #enji todoroki smut #enji smut #endeavor smut #todoroki enji x reader #endeavor x reader #enji todoroki imagine

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leiawritesstories · 8 months ago

Text

sleepless in terrasen

@throneofglassmicrofics instead of final papers i wrote...this 🫣

prompts: Sleepless & Rapture & Elixir

word count: 1,059 (whoops)

warnings: NSFW CONTENT OOPSIES

enjoy!!!

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She hadn't been able to sleep.

After two hours of tossing and turning, silken sheets rustling in agitation beneath her flushed skin, Aelin groaned in frustration and rolled out of her bed. Damn the man sleeping one door away from her. Damn his stupid sexy smirk and his stupid hot lips and his stupid big hands. Damn Rowan Whitethorn for kissing every coherent thought out of her head and locking the door behind him as he went to his own damned room.

Damn that gentlemanly tendency of his.

With a half-grunt, half-moan of frustration, Aelin reached for the small vial of medicine that she always kept with her whenever she traveled. Whether it was a long business trip with her parents and the rest of their government staff or a trip like this, a simple two-day drive from university back to her home, she always kept some sleep medication on hand. After nearly a decade of chronic insomnia, she knew how handy even a single does of that elixir was.

Fumbling in the dark, her hand soon closed around the familiar bottle. She quickly unscrewed the top, lifted the tiny glass bottle to her lips, and drank down the slightly-sweet medicine. After she placed the empty vial back on the nightstand, she tucked herself back into the very comfortable hotel bed, rolled onto her side, and waited for the familiar drowsiness to wash over her body.

Instead of sleepiness, though, a powerful wave of heat spread through her.

Shocked, Aelin flipped on the bedside lamp and grabbed the tiny glass bottle, squinting at the tiny print. Slowly, the words became clear.

Oh, fuck.

"Intensify Her Pleasure!" screamed the crimson lettering on the small black label. That wasn't her sleeping meds--it was a goddamn aphrodisiac.

And the need pulsing through her veins reared its head in full force, her nipples peaking to stiff little points at the thought of needing stimulation. Craving stimulation. From a certain pair of rough, calloused hands that had just recently gripped her hips as the man who owned them pressed her back into the wall and kissed a fire into her blood.

Gods. Aelin flipped the light off, dropped the bottle, and curled herself into a tight little ball under the sheets, willing the lust to calm itself down. Willing the image of Rowan's shirtless chest out of her--holy gods. Against her will, that image suddenly lost its pants.

And the fire in her veins burned brighter, demanding attention.

She stretched out, sliding the worn cotton shirt off her body. His shirt, its pine scent warm, comforting, familiar. Even the gentle rasp of the fabric against her peaked nipples sent a shudder through her body, and she lowered her hands to her breasts, gently circling the hardened buds. Harder. Rougher. Like she imagined Rowan would do if he wasn't so insistent on being a gentleman.

She didn't need him to be gentle with her.

As she slipped one hand between her thighs, Aelin couldn't muffle her soft moan. Fuck, she was so wet, turned on by the heated kiss, her need intensified by the damn aphrodisiac. Her fingers found her needy, throbbing clit, and she groaned, then grabbed a pillow and pressed it over her mouth, muffling her sounds. She should have been embarrassed that Rowan's name left her mouth in a broken moan as she slid two fingers into her pussy, but she wasn't. She wanted that man. Needed him.

And her fingers weren't nearly as good as she dreamed his thick, rough ones would be. Fuck. Breathing heavily, she reached her free hand into the nightstand drawer and grabbed her vibrator, switching it on to the lowest setting and trailing the bright blue toy over her nipples. She moaned louder, the sound muffled by the pillow, and slid it down her stomach, replacing her fingers with the vibe and flicking up the speed of the toy.

One more speed, love. Rowan's imagined voice filled her ears. That's a good girl.

"Rowan," Aelin moaned, pushing the vibrator harder against her clit and flipping on the suction as she flicked it up to its highest speed. "Oh my god, Ro!" Eyes closed, legs spread, fingers twisting her nipples with just the right amount of roughness, her body shook as she fractured, her orgasm tearing through her like wildfire as she pictured Rowan's darkened eyes gleaming up at her from between her legs.

Too slowly, she turned the vibe down and pulled it away, chest heaving as she caught her breath from the powerful orgasm. From the dream that had fueled it.

She really didn't know how she was going to manage spending six hours in a car next to Rowan tomorrow, as if she hadn't just pictured him devouring her pussy while she used her favorite vibrator. On the other side of the wall, she heard a faint shifting of sheets, as if Rowan was just as sleepless as her.

Though that couldn't be possible, since she was the one who'd just gotten off thanks to taking the wrong medicine.

"Aelin..." She jerked upright, half believing she was dreaming. As silently as she could, she pressed her ear to the rather thin hotel wall, listening carefully. On the other side of the wall, Rowan's bed creaked, and he groaned. "Fuck, Aelin!"

Holy. Fuck.

In a split second, Aelin made a Very Bad Decision. She pushed herself out of bed, tugged Rowan's shirt over her bare body, and went to the door that separated their two rooms. Knowing Rowan had left it unlocked, she turned the handle and quietly opened the door and stepped into his room before the embers still sparking in her blood could cool her impulsiveness.

In his bed, Rowan yanked himself upright, his sweaty chest glistening in the slivers of moonlight that spilled in through the gauzy curtains. His eyes widened as he took in her flushed, wild-haired appearance, her parted lips. Her breathing hitched as she drank in his bare skin and the bulge barely hidden beneath the sheets.

"Aelin?" he whispered. Rough, jagged, hopeful.

"Rowan," she breathed. Rough, jagged. Needy.

He pushed the sheets aside and stood, and her knees weakened even as the fire in her blood roared right back to life.

"Come. Here." A demand. A promise.

She dropped her shirt to the floor and did just that.

~~~

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#my writing #prompt fill #throne of glass microfics #throne of glass #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #rowan x aelin #rowaelin #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin fanfiction #rowaelin fun times hehehe

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wreckedandpolemic · 10 months ago

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to my knees you do promote me - matty healy

prompt: queen of hearts

(mdni) day 6 and my final entry into valentine75! these were soo fun thank u vee @abiiors

warnings: sub!matty, oral (f and m receiving), unprotected sex

Your leather pants cling to you fluidly, like a second skin, matching gloves stretching up to your elbows. You pose dramatically, raking a hand through your hair and pressing your tongue against the inside of your cheek, savouring the way Matty’s gaze burns against your skin. He doesn’t know where to look, eyes darting wildly from the laces that cross over a strip of bare outer thigh; to your bare stomach, silver jewellery adorning your belly; to your tits, cradled in a black lace bralette with straps crossing your décolletage in a way that’s reminiscent of a harness.

“You like it?” you ask, smirking as he swallows thickly.

A charged, silent moment passes. “You can’t wear that,” he finally gets out, voice low and gravelly.

You take a deliberate step towards him, boots clacking on the wood floor, lips stretching in a predatory grin when he flinches. “Why not?” you pout, “Don’t I look hot?”

Matty’s answer comes embarrassingly quickly. “God, yes,” he groans, eyes lidded as his gaze sends heat flushing under your skin. “You can’t wear that, ‘cos I won’t be able to keep my hands off you.”

Laughing to yourself, you close the distance between you and sling your arms around his neck. Matty stiffens, a trembling breath ghosting over your lips. “Can’t control yourself, hm? Am I driving you crazy, baby?”

“Mhmm,” he murmurs. You can see him slipping, eyes glazing over, wide and needy.

You grin, sly and teasing, and reach down to palm his cock through his jeans. He whines softly, already melting in your hands, pliant and sugary-sweet under your touch. “Oh, baby,” you murmur, tone drenched in faux concern. “You need it, huh?” High spots of colour paint Matty’s cheeks and his eyes fall to the ground as he nods. “Words, baby,” you instruct.

“Want you,” he says, the confession coming out quiet and penitent. You press a kiss against the corner of his mouth in reward, his lips twitching in a pout as a silent plea for more. “Please,” he adds, anticipating the words balanced on the tip of your tongue.

Matty’s hips jerk involuntarily against your hand as you slip your hand into his boxers and squeeze lightly. “Such a good boy,” you coo, admiring him as your words pull him deeper into that soft, malleable state. Getting him like this is rare, and you usually don’t get a sign before it comes on; Matty has a tendency of bottling up his stress until the glass shatters under the pressure and he comes to you pleading to lose control. “How do you want me?” you ask, still stroking him gently. Matty shudders, cock drooling into your fist.

It’s not always like this, all whispered praise and reverent quiet — sometimes, Matty needs some coaxing to let go, pushing back against you defiantly until you can bend him enough to fall. “Want your mouth. Please.” He’s quiet but sure, and you smile indulgently at him.

He inhales sharply as you drop to your knees in front of him, nuzzling your cheek against his clothed cock. A whine falls from his lips, so pathetic that you almost feel guilty about the scant tease. You free his cock, kissing the flushed head, crooning praise as he fights to hold still. “My pretty boy,” you murmur, watching through your lashes as a flush spreads over his cheeks and he smiles shyly. “Such a pretty dick, too,” you add, stroking over him and relishing the way he moans and shivers under your touch.

You run your tongue along the length of Matty’s cock, the salt of him intoxicating in your mouth. Your name falls from his lips, rapturous, as you swallow him whole. His head lolls back, his moans a litany that has heat buzzing under your skin. There’s power in this, in reducing him to a needy, obedient mess; him who bends you over and fucks you until you’re crying, who fists a hand in your hair and whispers sweet cruelties in your ear, who tells you shut up and take it like a good girl.

Desire throbs sickly in your gut. You press a hand between your legs and grind down against it, moaning around Matty’s cock as it bumps the back of your throat. Pulling off, you lap at his tip, thin tendrils of pleasure curling up your spine as your hips roll against your hand. You go to take him in your mouth again but he stills you with a gentle hand.

With a question in your eyes, you look up at him. “Wanna get you off,” he says, eyes wide and glossy with desire.

You smile up at him, his face open and earnest as you stand to face him. You press your lips to his, swallowing his whine as he tastes himself on your tongue. His kiss is shy as he accepts whatever you give, controlled and ascetic. “Such a sweet boy.” You walk him to the bed, pulling him down on top of you without breaking the kiss.

Inhaling greedy lungfuls of his quiet moans and shuddering breaths, your hands slide to the laces of your pants and you start to untie them. Matty’s hands tremble as they come to cover yours, the knots coming loose under his touch in a way your body recognises. His eyes don’t leave yours as he makes his way down your body, his gaze sparking heat under your skin that drips down your spine and pools between your legs. You tangle a hand in his curls as he tugs your pants down just enough to fit himself between your thighs, his pained whine syrupy-sweet against your skin when you tug at them just slightly.

White spots dance across your vision as Matty’s lips connect with your skin, his tongue insistent and feverish over your clit. You moan softly, pleasure rolling over you in gentle waves; he takes the sound as an encouragement, redoubling his efforts with fervour. He’s losing himself in you, eyes fluttering shut as his tongue roves over your cunt, teasing your clit and then dipping inside you, back to your clit before you even feel the loss.

“Good boy,” you say, cunt clenching around Matty’s tongue as he fucks it into you in a gorgeous, deliriating rhythm. The praise has him reeling, his hips grinding down against the bed as he whimpers into your cunt. “I love you like this,” you murmur sweetly. “Don’t care about getting off, do you? Just wanna let me use you, hm? Making me feel so good, Matty. So fucking good,” you promise, carding your hands through his hair as he brings a hand up to you with your clit, a burst of pleasure buzzing up your spine when he rubs a skilled circle over your sensitive nerves.

“Wanna make you cum,” he whines, pleading, his lips and chin glistening with your arousal. The calloused pad of his finger brushes divinely against your clit, the scrape sending a thick pulse of heat winding around your organs. Your responding moan has Matty burying his tongue in your cunt, devouring you with a ferocity that sends ecstasy ricocheting through your body, your hands fisting in the sheets as you moan and writhe uncontrollably.

His hips grind down against the sheets brainlessly, his body chasing his pleasure while his mind is singularly focused on yours. Desire ramps up under your skin, setting you aflame. Blood pounds in your ears, your world tunnelling down to where Matty’s hands grip your thighs, where his fingers circle over your clit, where his tongue thrusts in and out of you in an earth-shattering rhythm. His nails bite into your tender, sweat-slick skin, the faint edge of pain tracing lovingly around the curves of your arousal.

“God Matty, fuck,” you whine. “Feels so fucking good. God, I love your fucking tongue. My good boy.” He doesn’t let up, practically dragging your hips down to fuck his tongue impossibly deeper into you, until your body can’t take it anymore. Your hands fist in his hair as your body catches alight, screaming his name as you soak his lips and chin. Euphoria pumps in your veins, your heart working in overdrive as it seeps into your organs. All the air leaves your lungs, pleasure choking you out, Matty’s tongue still working over your clit as your cunt clenches around nothing.

You come back to your senses and Matty’s eyes meet yours, pure adoration passing between you. Need is written openly on his face, underlined by his flushed, drooling cock hanging hard and heavy where he kneels between your legs. “Can— can I cum? Please?” he murmurs, hands hovering nervously over his stomach, his body a hard line of tension that hangs on your strings.

Slowly, you move around the bed, stripping out of what remains of your clothes and helping Matty out of his. You climb over him, resting your hands on his shoulders and pushing gently. “Lie back, baby. Let me take care of you, yeah?”

He nods obediently, letting himself fall against the pillows, his eyes glued to your slick, messy cunt as you lower yourself onto him. His name falls from your lips in a low moan, the stretch in your cunt familiarly divine, burning pleasure pulling at all of your limbs at once. “You feel so good,” Matty whimpers, hips bucking and striking that perfect spot inside you that sends ecstasy careening through your bloodstream. “I love it when you fuck me like this. So fucking pretty,” he moans.

You drive your hips down at a punishing pace, eyes rolling back in your head as your moans mingle with his in the air between you, thick with molten desire. Bracing your hands against Matty’s chest, you lean down to kiss him, swallowing his gasps as his hips meet yours, heat kissing up your spine. “Doing so good, baby,” you murmur, losing yourself in his eyes, so wide they look black, so liquid you could drown in them. “My good boy,” you promise, sitting up and clenching your cunt around him, his quiet whimper sweetly pathetic in your ears as you roll your hips.

Nails biting into your thighs, Matty’s breathing turns sharp, unsteady. His hips crash wildly against yours, delicious arrhythmia pounding between your bodies. Your head tips back and your mouth falls open in a gasp, sticky heat pooling low in your belly. “‘M so close,” Matty whimpers, eyes falling closed as he writhes powerlessly under you. “‘M gonna cum, can I cum, please, please, please.” He draws the words out, stretching them into a sweet, broken moan that squeezes around your heart before kicking fiercely in your cunt.

“Hang on for me, just for a minute, okay, baby?” His eyes go wide, fearful, and you press a finger to his lips to silence his protests. Pleasure arcs up your spine, sharp bursts following every movement of your hips. Gazing down at him, you catalogue every inch of his face, scrunching in effort of holding back. “Good boy,” you murmur, the vast chasm of ecstasy yawning beneath you threatening to swallow you whole. “You wanna cum?” Matty nods, his whole body trembling feverishly. “Then cum for me, baby.”

The moan he gives is enough to tip you over the edge, plummeting into ecstasy so deep you lose yourself in it, stomach twisting and head coming unglued from your body. Matty’s cock pulses gloriously inside you, pumping you full as your cunt clenches around him, euphoria flooding your limbs. You slump forward, pulling Matty with you as you roll onto your side and slinging a leg over his waist. “Thank you,” he mumbles into your neck, pressing soft kisses to the skin there.

You run your fingers through his curls gently, curling close and basking in the warmth of his body all around and inside you. “Such a good boy,” you murmur fondly, eyes slipping closed as you press a kiss to the top of his head. “My good boy.”

#starting this by describing reader's outfit feels a Little bit ebony dark'ness dementia raven way #but i feel like the vision was needed #also sorry for saying leather pants i promise im from the uk #trousers is just a deeply unsexy word #matty healy #matty healy smut #matty healy imagine #matty healy x reader #the 1975 #the 1975 fanfic #the 1975 smut #writing #smut #valentine75

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kylorengarbagedump · 2 months ago

Text

Playing Soldier: Chapter 13 (NSFW)

Read on AO3. Part 12 here. Part 14 here.

Summary: Oh, insupportable delight! Oh, superhumane rapture! What pain could stand before a pleasure so transporting?

Words: 5700

Warnings: tiniest amount of bloodplay

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Co-written with @bastillia.

So, uh, it only took us 13 chapters and 80k words later, but we hope you enjoyed!

Not something at all we anticipated we'd end up waiting for when we first started writing this story, but we have had such a great time writing and our first-ever 'slow-burn'ish type fic has been really fun to explore. We are so grateful for y'all for coming along with us as well - much more to come.

Love you so much! <3

You bolted for the window.

The latch slid through your fingers. Your shaking hands slipped twice on the wood. Grunting, you flung it open, only for it to slam shut from the top. In the glass, you met Tavington’s eyes.

He was impassive. “I wouldn’t.”

Desperation rattled your breath. If you could get out of this room—run somewhere—perhaps Goddard or Cornwallis or even the horrible Ferguson would believe your story first.

You spun for the door, feinted left, then dipped right. Anticipating you, Tavington seized your arm, yanked you toward him, then spun you to slam your back to the wall.

The room whirled around you. Your chest heaved, your eyes darted to every corner of the room, seeking salvation, finding none. You were left to only focus on the man in front of you, the man whose hands had pinned your arms still, the man whose face seemed wrought between frenzy and victory.

“I believe,” he murmured, “I asked you a question.”

You swallowed. “Why are you following me, you brute?”

He hummed. “Fascinating response from a woman caught meddling in the documents of a royal officer.”

“I wasn’t—that’s not—”

“I’m quite sure of what I just witnessed.”

Grimacing, you flailed, trying to wrest yourself free. He stepped closer, flattening your body with his own, his leg slotting between yours to rob you of leverage. You grunted, ignoring the reluctant warmth glowing around his thigh.

“Get off of me!”

“I don’t think I will.” His breath skimmed your ear. “You knew about the ship, didn’t you?” he asked. “You knew it would give you opportunity.”

“What?” You shook your head. “N-no, I—the ship—”

Another breath stabbed through you. You could still see the desk. Paper smothered it, the reports you’d already examined tossed away and covering the surface, the floor, the chair like leaves from an autumn tree. In the firelight, trapped to the wall, none of the words were discernible. Not that it mattered, now. He’d caught you.

Your chin trembled. You couldn’t have appeared more guilty if he’d walked in on you with a knife plunged into another man’s chest. There was no explaining this. He’d see you hanged, see your sister slain and the farm burned. And if your father wasn’t already dead, he’d see to it that it soon followed.

Heat bit the backs of your eyes, threatened tears. You would not, could not cry in front of William Tavington, but God, if only you could let them fall, dissolve into them as they slipped through the floorboards. You were awful at this, he’d been right, you’d been sloppy and obvious and altogether incapable of subterfuge. And because of it, you’d damned yourself and your entire family to die, all while having never asked for any of this in the first place.

“Why do you try to delude me?” he asked. “Why do you lie as if I won’t know?”

“Go on, then,” you said, choking back your anguish. “Think whatever you want.”

Tavington’s head cocked. He studied your face. “Do you deny you are a spy?”

“Does it matter?” You stared into him. “Am I to believe that a denial would stay the hand of the judge, jury, or executioner who all bear the name Colonel Tavington?”

His lip furled. “You infuriating, impossible creature,” he growled, pressing into you. Another rapid breath in your chest—this one woven with excitement. “For every death sentence you are spared, you can’t help but seek another in its stead.”

“Spared?” you scoffed.

“Had I known this to be your plan, I might have allowed your own temerity to doom you tonight and had done with it.” Firelight danced across the thin blue rings of his irises. “Cornwallis would have seen your illusion dispelled in an instant.”

“That wasn’t—ugh!” You tried to yank your arms from his grasp, but his fingers only tightened. “I wasn’t going to say anything!”

“Another lie,” he murmured. “Or do you truly believe I don’t know that look in your eyes?”

Your insides flipped. You stilled, suddenly too conscious of your chest brushing his as it rose and fell. Of his thumbs resting against the pulse in your wrists.

“You know nothing about me.”

“Don’t I?” he breathed, gaze trailing from your eyes, your lips, your neck, your breasts before rising back up. “I know your rage. How easily your tongue is seduced to violence. I know that you think yourself a player in the game of war, but you’ve no regard or care for its stakes. And…” He leaned closer, triumph glinting in his eyes. “I know precisely why that is.”

You stuck out your chin, holding his stare, inviting—or perhaps daring—him to continue.

“You want to lose.”

Fury lit up your spine, and you thrashed against him. He crushed you against the wall, a flicker of delight surfacing in the black wells of his pupils.

“Then let me lose,” you said. “Why impede the temerity of which you accuse me? Why not let me doom myself? If you despise me so deeply, if you consider me to be a spy, a traitor—”

“I consider you,” he said through his teeth, “to be the most vexing, capricious woman I have ever encountered.” His tongue rolled in his mouth, eyes locked onto yours. “I know you to be misguided. A vicious animal—”

“For you to tame?” You wrenched uselessly against him. “Is that what this is about?”

A dark grin flashed across his face. “Is it not obvious?”

“Play your damnable games elsewhere,” you said. “I’m finished. I’m not your creature to domesticate.”

“And yet...” He tutted, maddeningly calm. “Imagine where you’d be tonight without my intervention.”

Vitriol crawled like slime from your stomach, still fat, still wriggling from when he’d forced you to bury it alive in front of Cornwallis. It burned, clawed its way to your throat, catching there and swelling in your humiliation.

How did this despicable excuse for a human, this monster, even divine its existence? In fact, how dare he—how dare he know this part of you, incise through you and unmask it in all of its shameful sticky fury.

Every muscle shook underneath him. The vile taste of rage coated your palate, beseeching an exorcism.

“Admit it,” he said. “I’m right.”

You screamed. “Fine! You’re right. I never cared about winning,” you spat. “Or losing!” The inanity forced a breath from your chest. “I never cared about any of it! Not your games, not even who wins this damned bloody war!” A laugh escaped, like venom on your tongue. “I have only ever cared about protecting my family—and if I die doing so, then may God let the end of my rope reunite me with them.” You leaned close to him. “And even if I never see heaven,” you whispered, “I’ll rest peacefully knowing you shall never darken its gates to torment them again.” A thin smile creased your lips. “And that no one has or will ever love you enough to care if you live or die.”

The fire crackled. Wisps of troubled voices echoed from the gardens. Shuddering air escaped you as you held Tavington’s gaze. Within it, you could see something churning, like the cogs of a clock reversing rotation until their teeth clicked into place.

His jaw shifted. He glanced over his shoulder, studying the heap of disheveled reports, their information wasted, ungathered, unimportant. A soft exhale left his nose, and he focused on the wall, his brow tensing before he turned back to look at you.

Tavington’s grip eased. He stepped back.

A flutter in your vision. You sucked in air, fresh from the space he’d given you, your eyes flicking between him, the desk; him, the desk; him—

Turning, he left you against the wall to move toward the desk. He frowned, turned over a few piles before finding what he wanted: a neatly pressed stack of parchment at least several pages thick. As if to verify, he flipped through them before crossing back to you, extending it in his hand.

“You were looking for this,” he said.

Something stuck in your throat. You looked between him and the report, feeling like a dog offered food by a stranger. Holding your breath, you snatched it away and your eyes consumed it as if you were that very dog.

The documentation was thorough, his penmanship fine—these were details you didn’t want to notice, but did anyway—and as you skimmed it, checking page by page, you didn’t once consider gleaning any other information that could’ve been of use. Your heartbeat resonated in your temples, your fingertips. With each beat, the papers shook in your grip.

You turned a page and the list leapt out to you. You scanned it, scrutinizing every line you found, looking for Michael, and Captain, and the first few letters of your last name. But nothing.

You found nothing.

Papa was alive.

Relief hit you like lightning. You exhaled, the report dropping to the floor, your face dropping to your hands. A swell of air rolled through you, and you relaxed, slumping against the wall.

It hadn’t been for nothing. You hadn’t ruined everything. Papa was, at the very least, still alive.

Thank God.

You cleared your throat and steadied yourself, your eyes lifting to Tavington, gazing at him as if he’d just raised Jesus himself from the grave. You expected him to gloat—to mock you—but found him watching you, staring into you, his own face clear of everything but curiosity.

The world shrunk, its boundaries reduced to the perimeter of the office, its context of war and strife and danger lost. Opposite you was no one but a man self-stripped of his obligations, a man who had alleviated your fears, a man who had met you, human, and wished now to know you.

You felt small, insignificant as the recipient of his mercy. It was as if you’d ripped your chest open and allowed him to cradle your heart in his hands, like you’d seen a ribbon of affection in his gaze as he hovered his teeth over its bloody rhythm.

He looked at the report now discarded at your feet, then advanced toward you, his voice like a distant peal of thunder.

“Why,” he asked, taking another step, “have you been avoiding me?”

Again, your mouth parted. Again, you were unable to speak.

“I know that you think of that night as often as I do.” When you didn’t reply, he stepped forward again. “Do you deny it?”

Fire roared, rippling from the hearth to your blood. You didn’t want to deny him. And even if you’d wanted to, gazing at him now—the flames spinning threads of flax through his hair, his eyes paler than morning sky, his lips so supple that you could only yearn at their memory—you couldn’t.

Shaking your head, you replied, “I… I do not deny it.”

He cocked his head, waiting. You hadn’t answered his previous question.

“But…” You glanced at his mouth. Swallowed. “What you want and what I want—they’re at odds,” you said. “I want my father alive. I want my family safe.” You gestured toward him as if it was self-evident. “You… do not.”

Tavington drew closer, looming over you now, and rested one palm next to your head. “Our desires are not…” His stare swept over your body. “... fully at odds.”

Your mind pleaded with you to grab his jacket, to tear the buttons from its seams and expose his chest to your hungry hands; your cunt throbbed, alive and aching for his attention.

“I don’t…” Whatever words you were trying to form kept falling apart in your mouth. “Know what you… mean.”

He smirked, his free hand stroking up your arm, finger tracing over your lace-covered clavicle. “I know you, little soldier, remember?” he whispered. “I know what this trembling means.” His thumb ghosted your pulse, stroking the rapid thrum under your skin. “I know what your racing heart looks like in your throat.” He cupped your cheek, tilting your face toward his own. “I know what hunger lies behind your eyes.”

“I…” With the noblest of intentions, you laid a hand on his chest, prepared to push him away. “But we can’t—there’s no reconciling these—”

Tavington leaned forward and captured your lips with his. You whimpered, softening in his hold, as if it was your purpose to yield to his touch. He held you still, cradling your head, and your hand slid down his chest, catching on each button of his waistcoat as it traveled to his hip. With a breath, he pulled away, his gaze trained on yours.

“Tell me,” he said, “truthfully, that you don’t want this.”

A beat resonated from your core to your fingertips, a cry to sate whatever beast within you he’d created and enslaved. The truth, you knew, was obvious to you both: You wanted it so badly you suffocated beneath it.

The only thing left was to succumb.

You hooked his hips, tugged him against your body, and sealed your lips to his.

Tavington growled, gripping the back of your head, fingers curling in your hair, his body flattening you to the wall. His mouth sought yours like a blaze sought tinder, his tongue pushing past your teeth and teasing over your own. Shivering, you tightened your hold on his hips, hoping to ground yourself as air fled the room. He groaned, adjusting his angle, deepening the kiss, and you met him in kind, breathing him in, reveling in the heady scent of apple and wood and smoke-steeped leather.

His hands moved to grab your wrists, tacking them to the wall as he broke from your mouth to nestle his face into the crook of your neck. Grunting, his hips bucked into you, searching for friction beyond the layers of gown and finding relief against your thigh. A gasp escaped you, and he ground against you again, again, panting into your throat, his teeth scraping the delicate flesh.

You felt him, even through your petticoats, growing hard, growing needy, a promise to satisfy a longing you could not even define. Drawing a breath, you exhaled exhilaration, nuzzled your head against his—and his nails and teeth sunk into you simultaneously.

“Ah!” You squirmed, but his grip intensified, and a thrill shot up your spine. “You animal.”

He huffed, dragging his tongue over the tender spot. “‘You are like what is said that the frying-pan said to the kettle’.”

You stifled a laugh, rolled your eyes. “Is now the time to quote Don Quixote?”

Tavington glimpsed you, a smirk playing on his lips. “Never a better time than in present company.”

Desire surged through you, and you fought against his hold, wanting to meet his mouth with your own. His eyes glittered, and he bit your throat again. You cried out, breathless at how pleasure and pain inextricably knotted in your flesh. Writhing against him, you delighted in how this only urged him to bruise your wrists, to drag his teeth down to the clothed parts of your chest.

When this prevented him from advancing, he released you, moving to instead undo the buttons on the front of your gown. Your stomach petrified. Even though Tavington had already seen your body, now he craved it, like a hunter relishing the meat of his first kill. And you—despite the terror his blade inspired, wanted to be tasted.

His nimble fingers fully revealed your stays, and you braced yourself with a breath. This was just a man’s body, touching your body. You were not a coward.

You shrugged off your bodice, exposing your shoulders, arms, and collarbones fully to his eyes. He leaned back to absorb it, then twisted to search for something on the desk. Before you could discern what it was, he found and grabbed it, his arm barring your chest and pinning you along the wall. You squealed as he brought the letter opener to the bottom of your stays’ laces and sliced through them like flower stems.

You gasped. “Bastard! This is my only pair of stays!”

A single brow rose. “And the only silk ribbon in the Carolinas, as well,” he said, and shucked it to the floor.

“Well—” He tugged down your shift, exposing your breasts. “Oh—”

Tavington snorted. “Oh.” Then he jammed his thigh between your legs, his mouth latching to your throat, his hands groping at your chest.

“Oh, God—”

The moment your center connected with the hard muscle of his leg, you moaned, the sensation of pressure so staggering that you were afraid you would be unable to stop. Tavington exhaled with satisfaction, shocks of bliss peaking over you as he kneaded your breasts in his hands, his thumbs circling your nipples.

Your cunt felt swollen, hot, and you rocked on his thigh, frantic to oblige its budding need. A sound rumbled in his throat, and his teeth attacked your shoulder in a sharp stripe of pain. You yelped, and he did it again, his breath picking up, his mouth raising wet, furious marks on your flesh.

“Yes,” you said, because it was the only word that you could think to say. “I—ah!”

He gave you no room to speak, gripping your breasts so firmly that you twitched, grinding his erection against you. You wanted, needed more of him—your hands found his jacket, slipped under the lapels, scratched at his arms in a wordless request. Relinquishing you, he allowed the coat to slide from his shoulders, and you made quick work of his waistcoat, unbuttoning it as deftly as he’d done to you.

“I see what you want,” he murmured into your skin.

The waistcoat joined his jacket on the floor—but you had no time to admire him before he was back on you, squeezing your breasts, kissing his way to one before taking your nipple into his mouth. You threw your head back, overwhelmed with desire, with the insistent throb that now pounded between your legs.

There was a part of him you were both desperate and anxious to know: the part of him that might slake the lust that your fingers had been so unable to satisfy. It was just a man’s body, you told yourself, a man’s body you had longed for since the moment you’d seen him.

As he swirled his tongue around your hardened bud, you clung to him, breath hiccuped with whimpers of bliss, and reached below his waist, gliding your fingers over the bulge in his trousers.

Tavington convulsed, slamming you to the wall, teeth tearing at your breast, a rabid noise strangled in his chest. “Enough of this, then, hm?”

He grabbed you by the shoulders, his jaw tight as he pushed you toward the desk and smashed you chest-first against its surface, sending papers flying. You groaned, making to move before he gathered your wrists and bound them behind your back. Air kissed your legs as he hiked your skirts up, baring your stockinged calves, your thighs, your ass to the room. Panic rang bells in your brain.

“There we are.” Fingers brushed the backs of your thighs, coasting toward your center. You wondered what it looked like through his eyes. The mere thought made you clench. “You’re dripping.”

Heat burst in your belly. You could only manage to nod. He skated his fingers over the fat, puffy lips of your cunt, and you writhed, flinching at every sensation on that tender flesh which had never known a touch that wasn’t yours.

Tavington hummed appreciatively. “It’s about time I made use of that.”

Behind you, you heard rustling of clothes, something dropping, and you clenched again, knowing he was releasing his cock, furious you couldn’t see it for yourself. You tried to stabilize your breathing, thoughts spiraling in a storm of emotion. He was going to fuck you. William Tavington was going to fuck you. You were about to lose your virginity.

A hand curled around your thigh. Something hot, thick prodded your folds, slicked itself on your wetness.

He was about to take your virginity.

“Wait,” you said, “I—”

Tavington shushed you. “Hush, now,” he mumbled. “I’m introducing your cunt to its new master.”

You whinged. A flash of memory—the first time you tried to tell him.

His cock found your entrance. Pressed against it.

Swallowing, you closed your eyes.

“William.”

He stopped. You felt the head of his cock pulse, felt his grip dig deep. A slow, long breath left him.

“Yes?” he asked.

“I…” You laid your forehead against the desk. “I’ve never… I’ve never done this before.”

More silence. Every inch of your skin burned.

“You what?”

You tried to turn to face him, meeting his eyes from the periphery of your vision. “I’m a virgin.”

Tavington seized your hips, flipped you onto your back. Breathless, you devoured the sight of him; his skin bronzed in firelight, the patch of his chest heaving in need, his eyes like those of a starved wolf. His cock was free, proud and hard—longer and thicker than you had imagined. Your mouth watered, your thighs squeezed together.

He was going to put that inside of you.

Your heart skipped. You met his gaze. He was inspecting you for hints of deception, and as you stared into him, his throat bobbed.

“I believe this is the first time I've seen true fear in your eyes.” He smirked, so irritatingly assured. “You are a virgin.”

Blood warmed your face, and you looked away. “Well,” you muttered, “I hope that's all right with you, Colonel.”

He growled, spread your legs and settled between them. “William,” he corrected. “And you should hope instead that your tolerance for suffering is as impressive as you seem to believe.” Busy hands tossed your skirts up again. “Because I'm going to make this hurt.”

Your breath hitched. Like a cat watching a dangling string, you couldn’t resist.

“You can try.”

Tavington offered a pitiless grin and hoisted your backside onto the desk, scattering papers over the floor. Trembling at the fact you’d provoked him, you could only watch as he grabbed your calves and propped them onto his shoulders, his hands cupping your ass and giving a longing squeeze. You groaned, and he swallowed again, positioning his cock at your entrance.

Gazing at you, he said, “Plead with me.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You may effectively play at some things,” he replied, “but not war, and certainly not stupidity.” His voice lowered. “Plead with me to take you.”

Your cunt clenched around emptiness. His cock was warm and slick and hard. Hard for you, throbbing for you. God, you wanted it—and he knew it.

You grumbled. “You are, without a doubt, the worst man I've ever had the misfortune of meeting.”

“And what of the best one?” he asked, tilting his head to indicate your ankles at his ears.

“Shut up.” You exhaled. “Please,” you said quietly, “take me.”

“To whom is this request addressed?”

You rolled your eyes. “Please, William.” You met his gaze, the truth easily slipping free. “Please, I want you to take me.”

Tavington’s jaw set. “You’re almost pleasant when you're obedient.”

The next thing you felt was pressure. Crushing, terrible pressure, widening into pain, like a fire iron was expanding inside of you, searing your insides, tearing deep into your stomach. You grimaced, gripped the table, fighting to find breath as tremors wracked your limbs. Above you, Tavington’s mouth was parted, his gaze fixated on his invasion of your cunt, the evidence of his pleasure escaping in soft, choked noises of disbelief as he drove deeper, and deeper, until his hips hit yours.

Fully buried inside of you, he exhaled, staring between your legs. Your mind was a whirlwind of sensation. You knew virgins to bleed. Had it deterred him?

He glanced at you. In his eyes, you could see nothing but utter rapture—the blue of heaven after apocalypse. You shivered, tightened painfully around him. No, it hadn’t deterred him.

William Tavington had only ever been delighted to see blood.

He exhaled. “Does it hurt?”

Your teeth clacked together, your body shook, drowning in its own feeling. Words wouldn’t come to you. But even if they would, you would refuse to give him—

Snarling, he slid out and slammed back inside. Agony ripped through you, forced a scream from your chest, and you spasmed, grappling for something more solid than the earth to steady you.

“Does it hurt?” he growled.

“Yes!” you sobbed. “Yes, yes—”

A quiet laugh rumbled in his throat. “Good.”

Tavington withdrew from you, grappling your hips, jaw slackening as he stared between your legs. He thrust in, you winced, and a deep, incredulous groan escaped him, as if he’d just released a millstone from his neck. Breath stuttered in his chest, his eyelids drooped, and he thrust again, again, his voice wracked with bliss.

Every stroke pushed pain inside of you, filled your belly with it. Your mouth lolled open, the only sounds leaving you strained through what little grip on reality you had left; the sensation sawed to your bones, engulfed you like gunfire. Seeking stability, you found his wrists, squeezed them to anchor yourself, shutting your eyes to endure the savaging of his cock.

“No,” he said. “Look at me.”

You whinged, forced your eyes to open. His gaze transfixed you.

“Very good. Meet my eyes,” he said, rocking into you, relishing each stab of discomfort flitting across your face. “Watch me defile your virgin cunt.”

Gooseflesh swarmed you, and you nodded, your attention flicking between his face and the sight of him disappearing inside of you. The truth of it electrified you—you were no longer a virgin—and as you surrendered to that truth, each new plunge of his cock felt less, less painful, as pain unraveled into pleasure. Tight squeals in your throat rumbled lower, reaching your chest, until you were moaning, panting as he fucked you.

“Enjoying ourselves, are we?” Tavington looked drunk with lust. “Have I found myself a glutton?”

“I…” You didn’t know how to respond to that. Maybe you were. “D-don’t congratulate yourself… just yet.”

He smirked, rammed into you so hard that you wailed. “You’re an even worse liar when I’m inside of you, girl.”

“Do all men talk this much?” you replied, digging your nails into his wrists. “Or only you?”

Tavington’s lip furled. He flung your grip from his arms and leaned closer, folding you in half. The angle drove his cock even deeper than you’d thought possible; it speared through your belly, split you open to your ribcage. One hand fisted your hair, the other clamped around your throat, and he huffed in satisfaction, cock pumping into you.

“Come again?” he mumbled into your ear. “Didn’t… quite hear you.”

His hips punched forward, impaling you deep. You quailed, but the sound perished somewhere under the pressure of his grip. A strange hum infused your senses—buzzing in your lips, grazing along your scalp, trailing bliss in its wake. It inebriated you, like his touch was made of Madeira.

And you needed more.

Blindly, you felt your way up your body, found the rise of his fingers where they pinned your throat, clutched at them. Tavington uttered a disgruntled huff into your ear, his pace faltering. His grip slackened fractionally.

“No,” you whispered, trapping his fingers and crushing them harder into your flesh. “More.”

He leaned away from you, just enough to take you in. His eyes, wild and black with desire, searched yours. You nodded, brows pinching together.

“William,” you croaked, “please.”

The wildness in his eyes morphed into something utterly possessed. He unlaced his hand from your hair, bracing it on the desk beside your head. His hold on your throat twitched, tightened. He leaned closer.

“Isn’t that better?” he asked. “Isn’t it a relief to lose?”

His fingers cinched around your neck. Tighter, tighter, until that hum resumed, then rose to a knell.

Tavington renewed the onslaught of his hips. Your own heartbeat pounded through your skull. Around you, the edges of the room softened, crumbled into grey mist. Your eyes rolled back. Existence narrowed. Left at its beating center, raw and alive, was you. And within you—heat, pain, ecstasy, and him.

Just when everything dwindled to a tiny, bright speck, just when it seemed the mist would engulf you whole, the pressure vanished. Air struck your lungs, consciousness and pleasure surging outward in a riptide.

You cried out with it, keening as his cock stroked a spot inside you that blazed alive with sensation. It was too much. Not enough. You couldn’t tell. Logical thought seemed a distant memory in this state of indecipherable need. Each sensation was new, each unearthing an excruciating, exquisite frontier within.

Tavington straightened, rhythm unrelenting. Gulping air and blinking the remnants of mist from your sight, you beheld him, a towering devil framed in firelight. You watched him take your hand, entranced as he guided it between your legs to where your body split around his.

“Touch yourself,” he commanded, voice ragged as he positioned your fingers at your clit. His face twisted in a smirk. “Like you do when you think of me.”

An indignant flame, half-buried in delirium, leapt to your tongue.

“I don—”

He snapped his hips, cutting you off in a gasp.

“Now, now,” he huffed. “I believe I requested your honesty.”

A languid thrust pushed a moan from your lips, and you nodded, eyelids fluttering. Tavington grunted his contentment, coaxing your fingers in slow circles over your clit. Surrendering, you took over the motion, touching yourself as instructed, as you had done so many nights before.

For the first time, a familiar pleasure crested, meeting the unfamiliar intrusion of his cock with a spark that made fireworks burst behind your eyes. Your fingertips brushed him where he entered you, dipped curiously down to feel the soft, wet wound of your flesh yield to the wrought steel of his.

“Tell me,” he purred, bracing over you again like a smug, hunched beast. “Is it everything you’ve imagined?”

He fucked you in long strokes, matching the tempo of your fingers on that sensitive nub to cataclysmic effect. Your only answer came out in a choked, desperate sob.

“Is this how you’ve longed to be ruined?” His hand slid to reunite with your neck, fingers cradling your nape while his thumb dragged up the bruised column of your throat.

“William,” you whimpered, trembling with the sweet ache that burgeoned inside you, deeper than you’d ever felt it, swelling toward a precipice. “I think I… I’m going to…”

“Yes.” His grip locked into place around your neck. “You are.”

His hand throttled any further noise. All you could do was writhe and swirl tighter, faster circles on your clit, drawn nearer and nearer to some indefinable edge as you shook with the force of his thrusts. Closer, closer it came, and your eyes squeezed shut, your limbs went rigid, your sanity suspended on threads, fibers fraying—

“That’s it,” came his voice, growling into your ear. “Break for me. I want to feel you break around my cock.”

Like a saber, his words severed you from rationality. You didn’t break. You shattered.

Euphoria ruptured your blood, a deluge through every vessel, the stretch of his cock stuffing you fuller, saturating you with it, until it reached the brim of your skin and poured over, washing you with bliss. You wheezed against his hand, quaking as he fucked you through your orgasm.

“Yes,” he hissed, “yes—”

Tavington released you. Coughing down a breath, you peeled your eyes open, watching as he wrenched out of your cunt and into his fist, panting, stroking himself. Sweat gleamed off his chest and forehead. Your jaw dropped. You could look nowhere else but at him, and his eyes fixed on you.

His hips pitched, and he released a guttural, primal moan, hand stilling and mouth parting. Jets of warm, white seed pulsed from his cock, splashed over your thighs and belly. It slipped down your skin, mingling with the sweat smeared underneath you. As the tail-end of his climax receded, Tavington exhaled, finally spent, and leaned on the desk to catch his breath. Craning forward, you took him in.

Sweat soaked you both, and between your legs, blood stained your thighs, your shift, the wood. It had even seeped into the hem of his blouse. He glanced down at it, sighing with an arrogant satisfaction. He swiped across your inner thigh, collecting your blood, his seed on his thumb. Staring at you, he wrapped his lips around it and sucked it clean. You shivered. Swallowed.

Tavington was exhausted, yes, but it was the exhaustion of a duel winner: relaxed, at peace, and fully secure in his conquest.

Your head dropped back onto the desk, and you stared into the ceiling. Aftershocks of your peak continued to distract you from toddling your way back to whatever normalcy was. What did the world look like for you, now that your virginity had been slaughtered by an uncompromising hound? The cavern between your legs felt sore, empty. Sticky.

Sighing, you rolled your head along a stack of papers, looking toward Tavington. “What are we to do about the desk?”

He cleared his throat, finally managing to straighten and meet your stare. “I can’t imagine what you mean.”

“Don’t be difficult,” you replied, rolling your eyes. “Someone has to clean it up.”

“Do they, now?”

“I’m not convinced of the wisdom in worsening His Lordship’s evening further.”

He snorted. “Am I to believe you’ve come to care about his opinions?”

“No,” you replied, frowning, “but they seem to be of great importance to you.”

Tavington gazed at you, a smirk crossing his lips. Keeping your focus, he reached toward an ink well, reeled back his forefingers, and knocked it over. Ink spilled like water across red-ribboned parchment.

“‘Alack, the day,’” he said apathetically, “‘what blood is this, which stains?’”

Oh, yes, this is just like Romeo and Juliet, you thought, as the ink bled into paper, dripped onto the floor.

Your hand plastered over your face. You couldn’t help yourself. You laughed.

#william tavington #colonel william tavington #colonel tavington #the patriot #jason isaacs #playing soldier #fanfiction problems #cw: bloodplay #and cw: virginity loss but i feel like that's assumed and implied entirely

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maithefluffychicken · 1 year ago

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Astarion/Gale bloodweave.

Gale has a gift for Astarion. SFW. Part 1 of ??.

Astarion had told Gale that he misses to admire his own face in a mirror. Petty vanity, Astarion has said back then, it feels like years ago.

It's been just a few weeks, maybe a whole month? Gale has lost track of time since the... ilithid abduction. And back then Gale had thought Astarion was just being dramatic, fishing for compliments, asking Gale directly what did he see whenever he looks at the vampire. Gale was taken aback then, both because Astarion is breathtaking in his ethereal beauty, his fangs a constant reminder of his dangerous nature... and because Gale had to face then the awkward truth that he was, indeed, developing intense feelings for the pale elf.

Gale praised Astarion that night, called him beautiful, and winced when Astarion seemed unimpressed by his words, no matter how much Gale tried to wax poetics about Astarion.

Now, Gale can read through Astarion cold, nonchalant facade. Now, Gale takes in every microexpression the vampire does, how his eyes flick quickly, taking in his surroundings, ready to flee or fight whenever he feels some kind of threat upon him.

Now, reaching Baldur's Gate, the tadpole still firmly and cozy nestled in their brains, with Gale's fate over his head like Damocles' sword... now, the wizard decides that he can spend his last nights on Faerun spoiling his favorite brat, the man that has raptured his heart.

"Gale, darling," Astarion calls, dragging every syllabe lazily, sighing dramatically. "What are you doing all by yourself in this ruined cabin?"

Gale shakes his head, amused. Astarion's voice send shiver down his spine, reminiscence of the dream-like nights they spent together, when Astarion still believed he had to use his body to keep Gale entertained.

"Ugh, this is so disgusting, oh look, a dead rat... What a waste... Gale? Are you playing hide and seek? Where are you, sweetheart?"

"I'm on the second floor, Astarion," Gale answers, unable to contain his smile.

"Gods, why? Come here, darling, I miss your face."

Gale does not giggle, he's an ass grown up man and he does not giggle, but he can't stop his cheeks from burning red. Of course, Gale obliges.

"What are you doing up there, dear?"

"I was just... meditating," Gale says, because he's scared to admit that he needed some alone time to psych himself to do what he's going to do now.

"Sure, alright," Astarion says, eyeing Gale with his head tilted up defiantly. "You missed dinner, I saved you some cheese and dry saussages, and bread, and that wine you fancy."

Astarion says, shrugging, as if does this for everyone everyday. As if this doesn't matter. Gale's heart does a mortal jump at this freely given love demonstration, and he's sure the vampire can hear how fast his blood rush thorugh his veins right now.

"Dinner, sure, thank you, beloved," Gale says, unaware of how the endearment falls from his lips until Astarion's face does that small wince, how his pupils blown, swallowing the red of his irises.

"Gale..."

"I have something for you," Gale blurts out. "I... could we find somewhere more intimate?"

Astarion seizes him up with his red wine eyes. Nods minutely. Astarion trusts Gale, knows Gale won't betray him, nor force him to do something Astarion is not ready yet. Gale would rather die to betray Astarion, and leaving the tray of food behind, Gale takes Astarion's cold hand and together they walk until Gale deems the landscape good enough for his gift to Astarion.

Let me know if you want to be tagged in the next parts or in my Astarion/Wyll ficlet (coming soon) 💛

#astarion #astarion ancunin #gale dekarios #gale #bg3 Astarion #bg3 Gale #ficlet #fluffy chicken writes #fluffy chicken plays bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 #bloodweave #astarion/gale

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obiwanwhat · 10 months ago

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Title: Rapture

Author: galateaGalvanized

Relationship(s): Cody/Obi-Wan

Synopsis:

Cody freezes. “What does it do, sir?”

“It appears—it appears to strip a Jedi of their powers,” Obi-Wan says, looking to the side with a ragged exhale. “I can no longer sense the Force, or you, or anything, for that matter.”

Or: An independent terrorist cell has developed a weapon capable of severing the bond between a Jedi and the Living Force. They test it on High General Obi-Wan Kenobi.

My notes:

asdjfasdlkfjs;dlfkjas;dlfk I am so feral over this story. oh my god the angst!!! cody and obi-wan have to deal with both their own feelings for each other and Obi-Wan losing the Force. top tier hurt/comfort , top tier angst, top tier slow burn. I cannot recommend it enough!!

#fic rec friday #star wars #it's technically still friday in my timezone #codywan #commander cody #obi wan kenobi

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blindrapture · 7 months ago

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Rapture: Before we begin.

We are about to start a long and involved process: I am about to start (tomorrow) posting OH GOD THE RAPTURE IS BURNING's final draft. As this story was first written here on this very tumblr, I have some experience with how to do this and what can go wrong.

Every day, with one single exception (May 22nd), I will post a chapter of the story (on both this tumblr and my Website). Each chapter is called a "log" (this story is also known as The Rapture Logs) and is titled with the day that it takes place. As the narrative persists from May 21st, 2011, to October 21st (and then a bit extra), I have elected to post the story now in the same way. The May 21st log will be posted on May 21st, the June 19th log will be posted on June 19th, et cetera.

As I much prefer to keep my hands on the 'product' even during delivery (there are many opportunities for something to go wrong), I do not plan on Scheduling any of these posts and will post them directly, myself, each day. I do not expect to adhere to a reliable schedule, so the exact time that a log is released may change per day. However, I may get into a rhythm. Can't promise anything. (If you want to.. what is it, Subscribe to my tumblr, make it so you get Notifications when I post? That may be a good idea. Up to you.)

After having done some testing, the exact method I use to bring these logs to tumblr this time causes some finicky formatting errors that tumblr does not allow me to fix. I've tried, many times, and they keep resetting. However, these errors are (so far) minor. When there is a long consecutive string of bolded or italicized text, for instance, you may see the bold/italics end before it should. If you see that kind of thing, I am 99% sure it is unintentional, and I am aware of it, and I am sorry. Hopefully it shouldn't be that distracting.

There are some... other missing features that the Website will have and the tumblr will not. So. The Website is the best way to read. And the tumblr will be here as a supplement, in case for some people it is just easier to stay on tumblr.

I am including links, at the bottom of each log, to the tumblr Table of Contents, and to the Next and Previous Logs. If you are following this release daily, the "Next" button will not function at first. Because the next log will not have been posted yet. Makes sense, but wanted to be clear.

Art will be included within the logs. Not every log. Not even many logs. But there will be art. And on those days, I will also post the art in a separate post after the log, giving full credit to the artist. There may be one exception I can think of, where the art is of a fundamental spoiler, and I'll.... figure something out for that event.

These logs are going to get long. They are not predictable. I mean, anything is predictable, and Rapture is easily long enough that you will start to engage with trying to predict it. But my point here is: Each day, ask your innermost heart, "Do I feel like reading this?" It is okay if the answer is "Not today." I do not require a certain number of Likes, Comments, and/or Subscribes before I post the remainder of the story. And this is not a Limited Release; Rapture will be available forever. I would like readers, of all stripes and sorts, including daily ones. But I also would like some spaghetti bolognese. Today might not be a spaghetti bolognese day, and I've made peace with that uncertainty. .....so, yeah, feel free to catch up with the story later if you must.

Now, let me remind you of the Trigger Warning that I had posted at the beginning of May.

Trigger Warnings: Sex, Gods, and Rock & Roll. (violence, to others and to the self. some swear words. teenage angst, cringe. death. insects. surrealism. symbolism. unpredictability of what will be explained and what won’t. sexual acts with dubious consent– you will be able to skip that part. religious iconography. and so much prog rock.)

The only joke in there is the word "some" before "swear words." I promise you, this story is not for everyone. I do not say that to brag; I say that to convey some of the responses I have gotten from previous drafts. I have accounted for one skip in the entire story, and it's pretty early on. Rapture hits the dubious consent theme in its least comfortable form early and then lays off of it. Being honest with you, earlier drafts did have more of it, and I cut out almost all of it, but I did not remove that early instance, even after eight big opportunities to do so. I deeply believe it is doing something beyond just shock. And so, if you choose to skip it, I have at least included a safe recap at the point where skippers resume.

That should be all the essential stuff. Now for some quick bits:

This story makes use of emoticons, including a couple that are not common. Keep in mind that every emoticon has eyes and a mouth. For instance: the .w. face is related to the owo face, but using the eyes from the ._. face. What .w. means is a sort of humble happiness, an "Aw, shucks!" (The < in <:D is intended as eyebrows, not a party hat.)

This story uses some real names, of people and places. The places are just... places. The people names are only used where permission was granted, and I explicitly only use them for the sake of aesthetic, personally enjoying the way a name looks or sounds. All the events and opinions portrayed are fictitious.

There is a caveat in the case of the main protagonist and narrator. He is a riddle of a self-insert, a caricatured snapshot in time of the author at 16. Think what you will about the merits of a self-insert. I promise you, every expectation you have has been taken care of. I promise you, I know what I am doing here.

Okay. That's a lot of words.

Honestly there's probably even more stuff I should say? But I don't want to overexplain this. Chances are, you're actually gonna be totally fine??? Chances are, Rapture in its final draft is totally readable, and not even all that shocking, and all this preparation is making it sound like it's gonna be way worse than it really is. That's the best-case scenario here. I'd rather be prepared.

So. So look. We are on tumblr. You have the ability to send me Asks. Ask me anything. Please, ask me anything. You want the best way to read? You want clarity on what the heck I was thinking when I wrote a weird opinion of Jordan's? You want to know when the story will get good? Ask me.

'Cause, starting tomorrow until the story's done, I'm only going to be posting about Rapture. I'm going full Rapture Mode. I will only reblog posts relevant to Rapture. I will only post links to the Website, or anything relevant to the story.

Right now, as of May 20th, I am still in the process of rewriting later sections of the story. I have hit some slowdown as there were some logs that took multiple days, but I am still over two months ahead of where you'll be, so there's a bit of buffer. I should be done around August? So you're watching me do a public performance here too. Trying to outrun my own story and finish it before the present catches up with me. We'll see. God, we'll see.

God, I hope my new readers are ready. Rapture was once called a "butchery of epistolary literature," are you ready to see what spawned that insult?

Am I ready to expose myself to the world once again?

Let's!!! Let's do this thing!!!

#ogtrib #oh god the rapture is burning #ogtrib preface

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secret-smut-sideblog · 9 months ago

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To Build A Home

Gale x F! Tav (named)

(Child Of Dawn series, Part 5)

PG-13 religious trauma, complicated feelings, tenderness (platonic and romantic), love proclamations

The wound in her chest healing, Aurum confronts the ties that still bind her. And with Mystra's new expectations given, Gale cannot wait any longer to tell her of his feelings...

Masterlist, Prev Chapter

Sat in waist high grass, she waited.

World still dark, head bowed, hands resting in her lap.

As soon as the crown of the sun's head rose over the mountain, the hymn began. Low, distant, but gaining power.

Her flock calling for her.

She responded in the old song. Heart aching with loss, anger, regret. Fury at being here again, at herself for re-looping this cut thread around her wrist.

But, more than anything, ashamed at the relief. The feeling of not being alone. That her convocation was with her again.

Their voices strong, surrounding her in rapturous wordless prayer. Her own voice rising high above, feeling their devotion like lovesick children.

Tears streamed down her face, bitter and tender in equal parts.

As the sun, the true sun, fully crested the sky, their voices faded into the ether. Gone until the next morning.

Gripping at her weathered holy robes, her tears fell silent.

"I am not your savior." She whispered to the crickets, to the waving grass.

Her chest still ached, both in restraining the sun inside and the deep fracture that struck down it.

She had gone too far and she couldn't go back now. Unless devine intervention struck, the sun had been rose. And a false sun cannot set.

Reawakening had been what had saved him from the shadow curse, but at such a cost. She could never tell him the extent of the choice she had made that day.

Clenching her fist, she cried. So close. She had been so close to being out.

But what was done is done. Now she had to learn to live with it again.

Rising her palm to the sun streaked sky, she let the sigil of Lathander burn above her.

Maybe he would be more forgiving than Amauntor. The same god she is sworn to in essence, but a different facet. She did call upon some level of his power already.

But could the false sun turn him from her? The blasphemy seated inside her chest.

A dome of light covered the entire of the clearing as she hushed the incantation, lifting the ends of her hair.

She closed her eyes and tried to channel him, palm burning in defiance already.

Only when her chest began shrieking in indignant betrayal did she release. But she felt it, if just for a moment.

"Aurum?"

She turned her head, letting the spell fall away. Smiling warmly at the legs approaching in the grass.

"How'd your hunt go?"

Astarion flopped down next to her with a sigh, stretching long legs out.

"That good, huh?" She teased, resting her head on his shoulder. He leaned his head in kind.

They sat quiet like that for a moment, tall grass waving around them. Hidden away in a small pocket of the earth.

"I missed this." He sighed, lacing their hands together. "And I didn't even remember it. Isn't that silly? Missing something that you forgot you had."

Aurum hummed in agreement. She felt the same, tenderness between friends was something she could barely recall. But her heart ached for it all the same.

"So, how's the hopeless pining going?" He teased, knocking his knee against hers.

"Oh, about as well as your hunting."

He scoffed, and she laughed.

"I'm well enough that you can feed on me again, Astarion. I promise."

"I'll take you up on that offer. But you're avoiding my question, you're oh so good at that."

She sighed, turning to face him. Picking up pieces of grass and laying them in a line on her knee.

"It's just so complicated. There's so much going on even outside of my internal problem. The Absolute, the tadpoles, the orb... Gods don't even get me started on Mystra and her order to detonate it! The bitch..."

"Language!" Astarion admonished.

"Oh her and I would have words, I promise you that. It's just..."

As she trailed off he squeezed her hand in encouragement.

"I don't know how much Gale wants me or he wants another Mystra, you know?"

Astarion hummed in agreement.

"I think on some level he sought me out as a replacement. Another goddess to worship. Gods the way he looked at me in those early days, I felt like I was back in the temple in Waterdeep."

She looked up at him, smiling sadly.

"I wish he could see me the way that you can. Messy, imperfect, honestly a little annoying."

Astarion snorted. "A little?"

She pinched his thigh.

"I just... I don't want to be a devine messenger anymore. Though it seems that may be my fate."

She felt tears threatening. "I wish things could be any other way."

The sun flared in her chest, and she cupped her hand over it.

He put his hand over hers.

"I hear you."

She smiled, pressing her forehead to his.

"Thank you."

They took another moment of comfortable silence. Connected to one another.

"Let's go back to camp, darling. Before we get ticks."

She laughed, wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

"True, we only have enough room for one bloodsucker around here."

"Absolutely vile feedback, my dear."

He pulled her up by their clasped hands. Thumb rubbing hers as they walked. The risen sun at her back, they returned to their small noisy, messy world.

"One moment with you could sate me for a lifetime, and prise the fear from my heart. I'm so very glad you came, to share this with me."

Aurum's heart ached, finding his words to be true. The canopy of Weave he had constructed floating over her, blanketing the sky in ribbons of blue and purple.

"I know this is all unreal, but I created it for you. You must know that you're..." He paused, face tensing. "That you're very special to me."

She pulled her bottom lip into her teeth, not voicing her underlying thoughts but still feeling them.

"If things were different, if we were home, I'd have taken the time to do things properly. To say it all better. But time is short."

His soft brown eyes fell on her then, face strained.

"I'm in love with you." A near whisper.

She knew he was, had known for a while. In the way all devotees love their object of worship.

She took his hands and kissed him deeply.

"I don't think I can be what you want from me." She hushed against his lips, pulling away slightly. "I can't be your new goddess, Gale."

He took a sharp breath in, but didn't pull away.

"I know. I'm sorry. I've put you in an unfair position."

Relief flooded through her at his admission.

"If we do this, we must be equals. I cant..." She paused, tears threatening. Turning her face down.

"I can't take being held above anymore. It hurts too much."

He cupped her face, bringing her eyes back up to his.

"I can love you as mortals do, I promise I can."

A knot in her throat silenced her for a moment.

"I think I could love you the same if you'll still have me." She hushed.

He laughed softly

"Of course I'll still have you. Gods, that's a relief. It would be a shame to spend my final hours making an ass of myself."

Aurum giggled, wiping her tears with her fingers.

"Well, I had planned to bond with you the way gods do. But given the circumstances that would be rather ill mannered, wouldn't it?"

He offered his hand to her, pulling her up.

"So you've caught on." She teased.

He scrunched up his nose in that playful way she adored.

"But if you'll allow me, I'd still like to take you somewhere. How about the perfect night in Waterdeep? Yes... Let's imagine how it would be."

She nodded, and with a wave of his hand a warm room enveloped them.

"The scene is this: you and I stand in the room that is the center of my universe."

As he introduced the room to her, she followed behind him. Taking in the cozy decor, the crackling fire. Fingers gently trailing along small objects on his desk.

He got quiet, staring at her in adoration.

She picked up a small trinket and held it to the light.

"What?" She smiled to his staring.

"Oh, nothing. You just look good here. It suits you, being in the heart of my world."

Her chest lit up white.

She looked down in shock.

"Are you okay?" He stepped forward, concern in his eyes.

"I think so. It's just... it's never done that before."

She held her hand to the sun, feeling a pleasant heat.

Then she started laughing.

"Care to share your epiphany?" He stepped forward, placing his hand next to hers.

"You know we see the sun as yellow or even orange..." She started, moving her hand to let him have full touch.

"But it's an illusion. Its true color is white."

He smiled down at the brilliant light carding between his fingers, looking back up at her.

"Can I show you my favorite spot?"

She nodded, and he led her by the hand to double doors, opening for them with a gentle creak.

"Ah, the weary sun takes its gentle dive into the sea." He hummed as they stepped out into the warm light.

The sea illuminated in the soft pink hues of the resting sun. Sailboats drifting, the gentle sounds of lapping water.

Aurum walked out to the railing, taking in the view with him. Both tinged in longing for a place far from them.

"When this is all over, I want to go back. I miss Waterdeep so much." Aurum sighed.

He turned to her, taking both of her hands in his.

"Could I take you home? Would you allow me that honor?"

She smiled, squeezing his hands.

"I would like that. Though I don't know if I could call Spires of the Morning home."

She paused then, a sad but honest thought crossing her.

"I've only ever lived in temples. I guess I've never had a home."

He stepped forward, holding the back of her head as she looked up at him.

"If we survive this, and if miraculously by the end we're both whole and sane... if you still will have me by then, I will make a home for you. Whether my own, here, or one entirely new. Would you want that?"

The sun burned a radiant white inside her, telling him her answer before she could speak. But she did anyway.

"Yes. Yes I want that."

He kissed her deeply, drinking her through. As endless as the sea and as replenishing as summer rain, he poured love into her.

When he finally pulled away she whispered to him.

"Please take me to bed, Gale."

Part 6

#doomed by the narrative girls ily #gale x tav #gale smut #lyrics by: two - sleeping at last #screenshot by me!

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w33nies · 4 months ago

Text

Qué Maravilla CH.13- 'Somewhere That's Green '

Previous Chapter Miguel O'hara x SpiderReader rating: E for Everyone bby warnings: Aplogies in advance for this shit is long as fuck. I didn't know where to cut it because I have attachment issues. hella use of google translates + angst, bad words + proofreader? I hardly know her summary: exposition + dramaaaaaaa

------------ Ch.13 - Somewhere That's Green -----------

Miguel O’hara could barely hear himself think. Odd considering how it was currently deathly quiet in the lab. This lab that was full of traitors and strangers. His divided attention was to blame for that. Here he lay on the ground, flat on his stomach mere inches away from the source of his plight.The stubborn walking, talking thorn that had been lodged in his side for the past who-knows-how-many-hours. Who could’ve predicted that this a short-sided, naive little boy would pose such an imminent threat to the sanctity of the entire multiverse? Or that just when he had him, things would go from horribly wrong to horribly worse. That at the most inconvenient time humanly imaginable Doc Ock, of all people, had to show up and. Or that when he finally had Miles Morales in his clutches, their tussle would send a multiversal-travel-watch tumbling straight into the hands of said super villain. (One that Hobie had brought with him, he thought to add. So really it was his fault, not Miguel’s for manhandling a teenage boy ).

Of course. Of course. Of fucking course. Just what he needed. More fuel for the fire that was his scalding migraine.

Notice how he said more. There would be no inferno to contribute to if it weren’t for his second conundrum…

Miguel was off his rapture and his body was not about to let him forget it. How long ago was it since his last dose? He holds his head in his hand as he strains to do the math in his head. Though quickly gives up. It simply didn’t matter anymore. ‘Too long’ was the only answer his brain could muster through the mental fog. His head hurt so much that it practically blinded him. His body burned. Like he was sitting in a vat of lava as it slowly ate away at his muscles. He feels his forehead to confirm his suspicions. It was so hot you could practically fry an egg on that thing. When he pulls his hand away he finds palms drenched. Has he always been this sweaty? He couldn’t stop panting like a dog in a boiling car. How embarrassing. He attempts to steady himself with both palms on the ground, but finds his arms trembling as he exerts all his strength just to hold himself up.

God was Miguel tired. As a result he was succumbing to his spiraling emotions, further exasperated by the ever raising stakes. Logic and reason were slowly giving way to rashness and impulsivity. Even the proud man could admit that much to himself. There was no doubt about it.

Miguel O’hara was slipping.

Is this what dying feels like? He’s pretty sure this is what dying feels like.

“Oh where are my manners?” Jonathon turns to the group of heroes, who have all now hastily pulled on their masks at the sight of the Doctor.

“Everyone, this is Dr. Olivia Octavious. She’s the head scientist and CEO of Alchemex.” Jonathon proclaims proudly, barely able to contain his excitement in his lanky, beanstalk like body.

“She oversees the atomic research division here at. The greatest mind New York has to offer. You should know that she got hired as lead nuclear physicist at the age 23! After she graduated top of her class at-”

The woman raises her hand to stop him.

“-Jonathon. Jonathon. We've been over this. Liv or Olivia will do. Thanks for the glowing introduction nonetheless,” she chuckles pridefully “I should really have you open for me at my next conference.” The woman’s eyes shift to the feeble puppy in his hands, her gaze grows distasteful. She forces a smile through clenched teeth.

“And how did this little...bundle of joy fall into your hands.”

“Oh! That’s because of this bright young man over here.” Jonathan points to Miles Morales of Earth 1610, who is now shoving Miguel further away from him in order to come to a complete stand.

“Doc- I mean Olivia, I know you’re close with Mac Gargan, but you should know there are some egregious animal right violations happening under his-”

“-Jonathon!”

The distorted robotic tone catches the scientist off guard. He turns towards the source, Miles G. Morales of Earth 42. The boy loudly clears his throat, swiftly swiping his hand back and forth in front of his neck. The unspoken message is clear, ‘STOP TALKING.’ The move causes Dr.Octavius to raise a brow.

“Don't worry guys, it’s okay!” Jonathan places his palm over his heart in earnest. “She’s one of us. I can personally vouch for her.”

“I know. Can you just …stand over here please?” Miles-42 requests. The others hum and nod their approval, motioning for him to back away. The scientist cocks his head, not dissimilar to the manner of a confused puppy.

“What? Why? I don’t understand.”

“You and I are both Jonathon.” Ocatavious frowns as she clutches the device closer to her person, calmly striding towards the heroes. She stops just short of Miles- 42 and glares with newfound interest

“We meet again Prowler. Though, I can’t say it’s a pleasure.”

“Don’t worry, the feeling is mutual.”

“Hmm,” she hums through her displeasure. “I take it you're the one who led this group of-” she takes another disgusted look at the spiders “-foolish goons into my lab? Or do you have another lame excuse for me?”

“Funny thing, actually!” Gwen interjects with a nervous laugh. “We were actually just, uh, we were actually just heading out!”

“You are?”Jonathan and Prowler say in unison. Though only Jonathon’s disappointment is evident

“Oh, were we now?” Miles-Spiderman mumbles to aloud sardonically.

“Yep! Oh yeah! Totally! We just need uh …” Gwen points towards the watch “...that and then we’ll be out of your hair!”

Olivia scoffs incredulously, “All of this over a watch? You’re going to have to do better than that.” Octavious secures the gadget to her wrist and promptly starts fiddling with its interface. “What? Is it going to do? Allow me to walk on water? Teleportation? Or will it give me the winning lottery numbers for tomorrow?”

The entire room is inundated in an uproar. “Wait! Stop! NO! NO! NO! Don’t-”

All interjections cease as the air around the doctor suddenly warps, giving in to conjure up a portal.

Olivia stumbles backwards “What in the world?

Before her is a wormhole of sorts. Made of luminescent levitating rings. Each layer looking as though it’s been shoddily cut out from a punk rock magazine. Her breath is heavy and shaky as she creeps towards the oddity. She tentatively puts an arm in, pulling out immediately in response to the odd sensation that ensues. Olivia studies her test arm carefully, flipping it front to back as she wiggles her fingers. It seems…normal.

She then takes a step in.

“NO!”

Everyone yelps as they leap to action. You find yourself in front, running forward to grab her but missing by a mere milliseconds as she and the portal disappear in a flash. You end up clumsily wrapping your arms around thin air, looking down at your empty hands dismayed. Before you can even consider your loss, you’re immediately tackled from behind by the spiders who have also hastily ran forwards with reckless abandon. The only ones spared are Penni, who's robot comes to a screeching halt just a hair shy of the collision, and Peter who braces himself with his hands outstretched against the bodies. May Parker gurgles happily from the safety of his chest, finding excitement in the frenzy. You, Noir, Margo (Spyder-Byte), Gwen, Miles-1610, Porker, Hobie, Pavitir and even Miguel aren’t so lucky. Finding yourselves collapses on the floor in a miserable dogpile. You all groan in pain.

Suddenly, a slight buzzing noise can be heard from behind. Everyone abruptly extract themselves from the onslaught to whip around just before another portal shows. The doctor comes.

“WOW! Was that- Did I just-” She fumbles over her words, starstruck. “There were so many channels! So many alternate timelines! And I was in Brooklyn but not this Brooklyn, of course. I saw the future. I saw the past. This is-” She pauses to stare at the watch in astonishment before looking at the scientist in awe.

“-A device for dimensional travel? Jonathan? You made this?”

“I wish. It was all from these guys.” He says as he points with his thumb at the spiders.

“I see,” she pulls her wrist closer to her chest territorially. “I think I’m going to hold onto this if you don’t mind.”

“Actually we do mind.” Miguel strides forward, holding his hand out for the device. Olivia just stares at his open palm and laughs.

“I mean, It would be a shame to let such science go to waste. Science is a collaborative sport after all. ”

Miguel utters a deep guttural sigh. “Ay dios mío lady. Look, I really don’t have time for this. I need to get home and I’m going to let you in on a little secret as to why. In case you haven’t noticed…” Miguel makes a sweeping gesture to the glitching nonsense that litters their surroundings,“...The entire multiverse is in imminent danger and I am the only one here who’s even remotely willing to stop it.” He turns around to the group, but he only looks at you.

“It doesn’t have to be that way though.”

You’re unable to gauge his facial expressions for the mask. And it's a struggle to discern whether he’s singling you out as a cry for help or because of his anger. It seems he is scrutinizing you in the same fashion. The prolonged gaze you share as you both work to decipher where your relationship stands. In the next instant, O’hara abruptly clears his throat and returns his attention to Dr.Octavius.

“You can play a part in not only saving your universe, but everyone else’s. Not only for every person in this room, but for everyone and everything you care about. Please.” She continues to stare at him, unmoved. He brings his open palm closer to her with emphasis.

“If you don’t give it up I’ll have to take it from you. Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be. ”

“Hmmmm.” She pretends to ponder his offer, theatrically tapping a finger against her chin. “Nothing worthwhile ever comes easy…”

She directs her comment towards shadows behind her.

“...Isn’t that right, Mr.Gargan?’

It’s low, gruff voice responds. One laced with a thick Spanish accent. “Así es doctora.”

Miguel groans as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Oh, Tienes que estar bromeando.”

Slow mechanical thuds precreed the man before he steps into the light. What emerges is man or a… cyborg of sorts. Apart from his steel legs, each technological addition was decidedly non-human. His left arm was replaced with a metal lobster-like claw, and from his back a massive scorpion tail with a stinger that sits high above his head. All of which were composed of a series of mechanical plates, colored in a shade of green so dark it bordered on black. His human real estate was littered with dark tattooed markings, like the kind you would find on a poisonous insect, trailing from the bellybutton to his neck. His buzz cut head is the only unaltered part of him. (You can’t tell if your mind is playing tricks on you or not, but the markings appear almost…fluorescent in the dingy light.) To top it all off, he sports a black leather jacket with metal spikes and ripped denim shorts that stop at the knees.

“Aye dios mio.” The man huffs, lifting up his giant Spruce colored leg to kick a piece of the rubble off his path.

“Look at all the mess.” He lets his arms fall limply to his side in exasperation, pausing to cast a scrutinizing eye to the intruders. The sea of spider emblems and distinctly colored morph suits mar his rough face with distrust. He laughs scornfully at the sight.

“I don’t suppose these are any of your men, Sergei?” he speaks towards the entire room, though clearly not talking to any of its occupants.

“Hah! You are correct bug.” The deep, husky voice responds from the cover of the shadows. Its tonality being distinctly Eastern European.

Scorpion scowls, “I told you not to call me that.”

The disembodied voice emits a deep booming laugh.

“It is true, no?”

The voice’s holder presents himself to be a large imposing man, easily surpassing Gargan’s towering frame by a good several inches. His long dark hair slicked back to reveal a striking face, complete with an unruly, yet maintained full beard and mustache. He sports a vest of his own. Though his is composed of both brown leather and gray steel. The collar is fully lined with animal fur, almost mane-like with the face of a lion etched onto its front. On his hairy chest rests a necklace made of large beast-like teeth. Long metal wrist cuffs cover his forearms, adorned with bones. In a similar fashion, small animal skulls cover his knees and elbows like braces, secured with an abundance of twine. His cargo pants are held up with a well equipped utility belt, including a pair of excessively large knives that sit atop hip.

“No. That is in fact not true,” Scorpion asserts defensively. “You have disappoint me, Kraven. I thought feral swine such as yourself would know all of the laws of nature.”

“What is it I call you then? Insect? Worm? Vermin?” The bearded man jests, struggling to contain his amusement.

“NO! Scorpions are- they’re- I don’t know-”

Kraven roars with laughter, courteously patting the bumbling Scorpion on his back as he strides forward. Leaving Gargan a stuttering, angry mess behind him.

Sergei takes a big, dramatic whiff of the air as he leisurely strolls around the room. Eyes closed and arms ever so slightly stretched out as one would do when inviting the sweet comforting sensation of sunlight. After making his rounds, he kneels to methodically run his fingers over the claw marks embedded in the ground. (Battle marks. From a beast perhaps?)

He diligently digs through the slew of rubble, pausing abruptly in it’s midst. He yanks a thin cable from the debris with a snap and inspects the gadget on his open palm. He scoffs, shoving the mystery contraption in his pockets.

He feels around the leftover spider web residue, which leaves a sticky substance on his thumb and forefinger. He finds himself pinching them together then pulling them apart with decent resistance as if dipped in a strong adhesive.

Finally, small crimson drops on the ground catch his eye. He lightly dips his hand in the substance, admiring the way it sits on his fingertips. (Fresh blood,Superficial wound). First he brings his fingers to his nose to smell. (Metallic,Type: O+) Then brings the substance to his mouth and tastes. The room is full of audible gags as the man smacks his lips thoughtfully.

(Human blood, Zero traces of drugs).

“Hmmm. I see…” Sergei mumbles to himself

Kraven gradually rises to his feet, unsheathing a large silver knife from the holster on his belt. He wipes off the damp stains of its previous use against the fur of his vest. Though he only succeeds in decorating the blade in faint red streaks.

“And what do you see Kraven?” Octavious asks like a teacher to a child, her head tilted amusedly with fingertips pressed firmly together.

Sergei brings a finger to his lips with a ‘shhhhh’ as he holds up the mic wire. A slight smile appears on his lips. “You have been…compromised.”

“Ey!?” Scorpion exclaims, baffled.

“Impossible,” The doctor derides. “Are you sure it’s not one of ours?”

“Positive.” Kraven shoots a stink eye at the spiders and the Prowler.

“That has nothing to do with us.” Miles-1610 insists, with a wave of his hands.

“I’ve literally never seen that before in my life,” Pavitir affirms with a palm to his chest and a shake of his head.

“Wired mics are so last century,” Margo quips with crossed arms.

“Maybe, ” Kraven says unconvinced. “But this…” The main points to the small details in the wreckage with his knife (outside the glitching, interdimensional, warped madness), “...This is the remains of battle and a fresh one at that.” He lifts his stained fingers, further emphasizing his point.

“All these damages, but few casualties…” he thoughtfully rubs his tinted digits together. “These will serve as formidable opponents.” He points his imposing knife towards Miguel, a sinister smile tugs at his lips.

“Leave the big one for me. I’'ve been looking for a new trophy to decorate my walls.”

Miguel O’hara frowns under his mask, straightens his posture to maintain his intimidating frame. You notice his legs slightly tremble under the stress.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to keep looking,” he huffs weakly. Without thinking, you briskly walk to his side and wordlessly steady him with a hand on his back and his arm strung around your shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, but you’re sure him squeezing your bicep is his way of saying thank you.

The man cackles loudly. He quickly resumes his demeanor with a satisfied sigh, using his blade to casually pick at the dirt underneath his nails.

“Do not let my appearance of youth fool you child. I have been on this Earth for over seventy rotations. And in that time I have struck down many men. Women. Children. Even my own father. Believe me when I say, countless have stood before me as you did, claiming to be the ones to end my carnage. But alas…” The man reaches across his body and unsheaths another massive knife from it holder

“...No one has managed to escape me yet.”

The Hunter makes a show of twirling the blades at dizzying speeds with ease before seamlessly transitioning to his true fighting stance.

“Allow me to show you why.”

Olivia clears her throat loudly. “Now, Now, Kraven..”

The rugged man mumbles a series of curses in his native tongue, rolling his eyes as he begrudgingly turns his head around. “Now, now what woman?”

“Let’s hold off on the violence for now. I believe It’s imperative that we…” she pauses as she considers her choice of words“...gather Information.” She taps on the interface of the watch she holds hostage. “I myself have some questions I would like answered. The fight comes after.”

“What good is information for me?” Kraven opens his vest, showing off a sash with numerous vials of bright green serum vials that sit just above his right hip. Rapture vials. Miguel stiffens at the sight, it takes everything in him not to pounce on the man right then and there.

“With this, I take down whole army if I want to. What use is negotiation to one with power? You ask me to waste my time?”

“I…Have to…I need to…Get. That.” Miguel murmurs in shaky breaths, jutting his chin towards his drug of choice.

“Miguel. No.” You whisper back vehemently, “What if it’s not the same? How do you know it won’t kill you?”

He only responds in desperate pants. His eyes glued to the small ampoules of bright green.

“Part of the hunt involves strategy.” Olivia reprimands sternly. “With a name like ‘Kraven the Hunter’ I figured it was you whole M.O. but well, maybe all those enhancements I’ve been giving you have gone to your poor little head.” She provokes with a condescending laugh.

“You dare to lecture me about strategy?” Sergei snaps with a scowl that bares his front teeth. “I have tamed nature itself. I am on the verge of conquering the human will. Soon enough, once this city of fools chose me for leader, no?”

“Sí claro,” Scorpion scoffs. “Only because I pull the strings for your little campaign.”

“We pulled.” Doc Ock corrects, shooting a stink eye at Gargan before continuing. She purposefully talks lower now so the others in the room have to strain to hear. “And if you want to keep it that way, you’re going to do what I tell you to. You know why? Because you’re replaceable. I can make any puppet I want into the Mayor. You know that right?”

“Puppet? Oh, no no no. You are mistaken.” Kraven opens his mouth for further retort, before shutting it soon after. He strokes his beard with an exaggerated sigh.

“Well, I guess this puppet will have no choice but to go to the press. Tell them about everything, they’ll listen to anything I say. You know that… right?”

Olivia frowns for a minute before relenting. “Fine. For now.” She closes the gap between them to loudly whisper in his ear. “Just know if you speak to me like that again, I’ll put you down like the dog you are.”

“Only a fool such as yourself would try and teach a learned one.” Kraven growls in her face.

“Speaking of a perro,” Scorpion digresses, pointing at the dog in Jonathons hands. “That belongs to me.”

The scientist pulls the pup away “Uhhh. I-I don’t think so?” he sputters nervously.

“Don’t be estúpido princessa. Look under the ear. What do it say? Something like, subject -24DD huh?” Jonathon checks the flap under the ear. Sure enough, in purple faded ink ‘subject - 24DD.’

The clawed man smiles knowingly, “That means it’s mine.”

“NO! You’re going to kill him!” exclaims Jonathon, retreating further away . The Prowler subconsciously inches toward the confrontation out of alarm.

“Kill him? Of course not. It’s too valuable to kill.”

Jonathan doesn’t budge despite his survival instincts going into overdrive. He can feel the dog tremble and whimper in his arms. “He’s not an it. You’re- you’re sick, you know that?”

“I’m sick? Imagine me. Sleeping at home asleep in soundly in bed only to be woken up by so many alarms that I think I in the Purge. Only to see that some morons not only have trashed my lab-”

“-our lab-” Octavious interjects.

“-but you have also cut power to my testing area and released and kidnapped my test subjects.”

Miles sucks on his inner cheeks, puckering his lips with regret. He re when he threw an electric charged punch to the control panel to free the animals. ‘Damn,’ he silently curses ‘Maybe I probably should’ve been more careful.’

“Well I say good!”

“Well, what do you rather do huh? How about you get dog and I get the pig to use?” Gargan laughs loudly at his own proposition. “It has been long while since I’ve had any pork.”

“You don’t deserve pork!” Porker cries, jumping onto Noir’s shoulder for higher ground and shaking his tiny fist in the air

The hunter chuckles as he reclines on a pile of debris, nonchalantly scraping at the excess calluses on his hands

“Your pleas of mercy amuse me. Tell me, does the mutt not have worse chance if outside in the city? Isn’t it a… how-do-you-say-in-English,” Kraven twirls his knife as he translates the words in his head. “...Ah! It is a natural selection, no? Here at least we concoct plan to make him stronger. A beast worthy of the hunt. An valuable tool for war.”

Olivia sighs unenthusiastically, “I hate to agree with him but does have a point Jonathon.”

“Dr.Octavius!!!”

“Would you prefer we use human subjects? Would you volunteer yourself or your family for such a cause? ”

“Well- I mean-no-” Ohnn stammers “But that doesn’t mean someone else won't! I mean-”

“-Jonathon we all have to do unsavory things sometimes for the sake of innovation. The Sciences require, for lack of a better word… sacrifices, Mr Ohnn. Sometimes it’s time, sometimes it’s money, sometimes it’s lives. Most of the time, it’s all of the above. It is a necessary evil, but the ends justify the means.” She puts a hand on his shoulder, putting on her best display of sympathy.

“So please Mr.Ohnn, give Gargan his dog back.”

Scorpion walks towards Jonathon, arms outstretched ready to receive, but Jonathan once again turns away

“No me pruebes, cabrón.” Scorpion threatens with narrowed eyes

Jonathon looks down at the puppy in his arms. He’s shocked to find that at some point in the chaos, the dog has fallen asleep. It’s bandaged eye nestled in the crook of his neck as it snores softly. He mulls over his options with the creature in his sights. Giving up the pup was a guaranteed death sentence, but what would they do to him? Sure they had them outnumbered now, but there was always after. After everyone left. After everyone goes home to their respective lives and he’s left to his own devices. What would they do to him once wasn’t protected anymore? What about after? Nobody ever thought about it after.

Jonathan Ohnn exhales the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. His shoulders relax as he closes his eyes. This headstrong meekness of his was exactly why he had a hit out on him in the first place. He was already a dead man walking.

But if he is going to die regardless, he’d rather dig his own grave then be left to rot.

“No.” Jonathan finally asserts. Under the villains’ vicious gazes the scientist immediately shrinks into himself.

“I’m sorry but I-I can’t give him up. You can’t have him.”

Olivia Octavious scowls. “Jonathon, you have a bright career to look forward to. I’d hate to have to take… disciplinary action over a mutt.” She laughs, the notion sounding ridiculous even to herself.

Jonathan takes a nervous gulp. “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you hurt another animal.”

Prowler now stands right at Jonathon’s side. Miles and all other spiders circle closer behind them..

Olivia’s eye twitches fervently, “Is this some kind of joke?”

“Nope.” Prowler holds the briefcase up high in the air and pulls out one of it’s brightly colored vials.

“Missing something?”

Octavious' face turns vicious. “Why you-” she tries to grab it but halts at the sound of another voice.

“And this!” On the other end of the room, Miles holds up the goober. Octavious, Scorpion and Kraven squint at it dubiously

“You threaten us with a… a SD Card?” Gargan asks with genuine confusion

“Does the name Peter Parker ring a bell?”

The eyes of the three criminals all widen in shock.

“I have everything on here. The confessions, the documents, everything.”

“We’ll leak it!” Miles G. shouts, so intensely that the distorter in his helmet takes on a new grating frequency. “Everyone will know exactly the kind of people you all are. Your careers will be over.”

The villains stand there in a stunned silence, though the doctor is quick to regain her composure.

“Do it.”

“I’m serious!”

“So am I.”

She apathetically drops her lab coat and ties her hair in a high messy bun. Suddenly, long tentacles-like appendages begin to extend from her back. Each shooting out heedlessly in different directions like large limbs in desperate need of stretching.

“Look out!” Prowler grabs Jonathan, shoving him out of harm's way. Everyone else frantically scurries around to avoid being hit.

When Jonathon unshields his face he sees a woman suspended a good few feet in the air, held up by a series of gargantuan rubber insulated robotic tentacles stemming from her back. Green goggles sit over her eyes, totally obscuring them. The smile on her face is menacing

“Liv don’t tell me you- you’re-”

“-Don’t call me Liv. ” she calmly reproaches, her fists clenched at her sides as she glares downward at the timid man.

“Call me Doc Ock.”

Scorpion and Kraven assume defensive positions behind her, their respective weapons are barred in hostility.

“I told you so.” Prowler chides in a not-so-subtle murmur to the scientist.

“Yo-You don’t scare me” Jonathan says apprehensively. “Once the Bugle gets wind of this they’ll-”

All the villains burst with laughter. Their loud, patronizing howls and cackles echoing off the lab's high domed ceilings.

“He take to the Bugle,” Gargan mocks in a high pitched timid voice. “Oh no! Anything but The Bugle!”

“Stupid, stupid man.” Kraven shakes his head in a manner almost sympathetic. “Who do you think owns the Bugle?”

Jonathons immediately face drops. “No…No you don’t. Y-you're lying.”

“I can see the headline now.” Doc Ock extends a hand to the sky in a sweeping motion, as in reading the words off a theater marquee. “Deranged Local Scientist Teams Up With Third Rate Villain to Undermine Brooklyn’s Beloved Elites.” She cackles loudly at her mock title.

“Uh, Uh” Scorpion shakes his head. “Too wordy.”

“We how-do-you-say… workshop it, no?” Kraven elbows Gargan payfully, both still reeling from his fit of laughter

“Well the point is…” Olivia raises her hands to redirect the straying conversation, resuming her malicious gaze directed towards the feeble man. “Noone is going to listen to a nobody like you. You’ll be laughed out of town before they even put the story to ink. You’re a joke Jonathon. Now why don’t you do the smart thing for once and hand over the stuff before we make your life a whole lot harder for you.”

Jonathan stands in place wordlessly, still as a statue as he stares at his shoes in idle contemplation. Suddenly his head snaps up with a sudden sense of urgency. He turns to face Miles Morales of Earth 1610. His free hand outstretched towards him.

“May I?” he asks. Miles reluctantly walks over and passes the goober. As he fidgets the chip in his hand. Both Miles’ hovers concernedly, blocking Jonathan from harm with their bodies. They mutter their concerns as he distractedly fiddles with it.

‘Careful. Careful. Please be careful.’

‘Ohnn-I-swear-to-god-if-you-drop-that-thing-I’m-going-to-frickin-scream.’

After a drawn out, contemplative silence. The scientist firmly grips the SD card in a tight fist. He straightens his back and holds his chin high with newfound resolve.

“Give the man his watch…” he phrases carefully, as if defusing a ticking time bomb with his words alone, “...and then you can have this chip.”

“What!?” Miles-Spiderman shouts at the same time the Prowler cries “Dude!?”

Olivia stares at the ceiling thoughtfully, “Throw in the briefcase as well and you have a deal.”

“I’d rather shit in my hands and clap.” Miles G. smacks the side off the case for emphasis as delving into a long winded flurry of insults in spanish. Much too fast for the non-native speakers in the room to catch on. Though Miles' eyes widen with an ‘Ooohhhh.’ Miguel snorts amusedly. Scorpion’s face sours.

“You think eres una mierda caliente, huh!?” Gargan leaps forward, launching his stinger directly at Prowler, who reflexively blocks it with the briefcase. The brightly colored poison from his stinger seeping down the front of the container.

“Será mejor que elijas un dios y ores,” the giant man jeers in his face through gritted teeth. Miles-42 forcefully pulls the case from the clutches of his stinger, taking a quick moment to ensure the safety of the content inside. He gives subtle sighs with relief upon seeing them still intact.

“Prowler please!” Jonathan pleads from the sidelines. “It’s not worth your life!”

“No way cabron!” He shouts, taking a swipe at Scorpions face with his steel claws, missing by mere millimeters. “We lose this, we're back at square one!”

“So this young man can go home and save his father!”

“Then what about us huh? He gets to go home and play hero while we’re left here with nothing?” Gargan makes a swing towards Miles' face, but misses. The boy immediately retaliates by smacking him in the face with the briefcase. The cyborg creature stumbles sideways from the hit.

“Then we’ll do it again! We’ll find another way to stop them! But right now we have to negotiate!”

“Negotiate with them? They’re one of the people who put a hit out on you Jonathon! They’ll kill you regardless!”

All the villains recoil in confusion. The claw hand Gargan had poised for a counter attack halts mid air.

“What?”

“Que?”

“что?”

“Well, This is news to me.” Octavious announces, utterly baffled. “Why in the world would I put a hit out on Mr.Ohnn?”

“For the collider, obviously. Don’t play dumb. He hid the blueprints and you wanted them for yourself. And you said you wanted them, and I quote, ‘By any means necessary.”

Octavious scoffs dubiously. “I will admit I was displeased by his gatekeeping of valuable information, but I did in fact not put out a hit on Jonathon. That is far too messy for my liking.” She wipes her hands on her metal corset from which her robotic arms stem, as if the mere thought stained her hands.

“What a bold-faced lie,” the boy spits.

“I could say the same about you young man.” She moves him towards via tentacle. “Tell me, how did you manage to get into this lab?”

“I snuck in. And you can thank your awful security for that. Half the officers are either asleep, or high. I practically walked in here. ”

“Right, right, so let me get this straight,” She messages her right temple with a pained expression on her face. “You had to break into my lab in order to carry out a hit I ordered for you? What sense does that make exactly? You aren’t a very good liar are you?”

The young man scoffs, tucking the briefcase under his arm defensively. “It’s not like You never liked making my job easy for me.”

“But you think I would make it harder on myself by proxy?” She guffaws. “I may be a little crazy, ” she squeezes her fingers together for emphasis. “But by no means am I that short sighted.” “Literally and figuratively.” She snorts, pointing to her goggles. She gives a long winded laugh and is the only one to do so.

“Booo!” Noir heckles.

“Get off the stage!” Peter Parker echos.

“You can lie all you want” Miles sneers, “but Prowler showed me himself-”

“-Ahh I see what this is,” she chuckles gleefully. “You’ve been double crossed by your own mentor, young man.”

Dubious, Miles G. Morales waves a finger in the air. “Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah. Don’t you dare try to spin this one on me-”

“-Young man, have been called many things. Mad, crazy, insane, even a killer. All of which are true I suppose. But let me tell you one thing,” she travels closer with her tentacles high in the air, before lowering herself to be face to face with his mask.

“In this line of work, no matter how thorough or strategic or exact or conniving you believe yourself to be, you can only bury so many bodies before you start leaving a trail.” She stares unforgivingly at the purple l.e.d’s where she knew his eyes sat behind.

“Of course I’m sure your mentor already told you that. Unless, god forbid, you’ve been primed to be his fall guy this whole time.’ she chuckles to herself as she turns to face the boys. 'That would explain his sudden ‘retirement’, wouldn’t it.’

Scorpion nods with a hum. Kraven proudly grunts as he crosses his arms.

That ‘retirement’ was your fault,” Miles G. fumes. “He would never do that to me. I know you think you’re slick. That you’re so smart with all your mind games, but those don’t work on me.” Even the distorter can’t disguise how his voice cracks with emotion. “I know who you are.”

“Awww.” Doc Ock coos unsympathetically “I believe you two have much to talk about later don’t you.”

Miles G. Morales seethes silently. He racks his enraged brain for a retort, but comes up empty.

“Welp, that takes care of that. Onto the next. ” Olivia dusts her hands off theatrically, shifting her gaze back and forth between the Prowler and the scientist.

“What’ll it be boys? We can get as bloody and complicated as you want, but I think you know deep down that all roads lead to Rome.”

Miles clenched fist twitches on the case. He can feel Jonathon’s pleading gaze, which he doesn’t dare return. The weight of the conversation gnaws on his chest like a parasite.

“God this is so stupid.” Miguel mumbles to himself and he holds his head in his hand. Exasperated at the thought of becoming an unwilling participant in a novela when he came here simply to do his job. He brings his hand up to his mouth to amplify his voice, “You’re an idiot if you’re actually considering negotiating with them, kid!”

Miles G. tsk’s noisily “Who the hell asked you man? Shut yo ass up, viejo!”

Miguel mumbles angrily to himself, as you pat his back reassuringly. ‘Last time I try to help somebody.'

Miles-42 once again resigns himself to his turbulent thoughts. He looks around all anxious eyes fixed on him. All bodies stiff with anticipation, ready to jump into battle if he initiated such. Being forced to unravel this conundrum in front of an expectant audience brings him a sudden feeling of claustrophobia. What was he supposed to say? What did they want him to say?

He stares down at the dented briefcase in his hands. Uncle Aaron would never set him up…would he?

With a deep sigh Miles begins opens his mouth.

“I-”

Only to find himself cut off by the sound of revving engines. Within the next instant, a blur of motorcycles soar through the air. One after another, before noisily screeching to a halt in the center of the room.

“Pues, hablando del rey de Roma, " Scorpion declares.

The caped man who dismounts his bike is clothed in shades of green and purple. The pregnant woman, who remains seated, wears red, black, and yellow. Each of their bikes are colored to match their respective color schemes.

“Jess! Where have you been?” Miguel callouts, attempting to hide how he’s using you as a crutch as he inches towards her. “I called you like a hundred times.”

“I saw,” she nods in the direction of Aaron Davis. “I was going to call you back but I was quite busy, obviously. You always had a talent for calling me at the most inconvenient time.”

He scoffs, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Everyone, including yourself, murmurs and hums in unison.

“I mean…” Peter concedes with a shrug.

“Well…” Pavitr starts.

“She’s not wrong,” Penni states.

“See, cuz I didn't want to be the one say it” Margo adds.

“Told no porkies I’m afraid,” Hobie remarks.

“I still have the scars,” Porker whispers with a shudder.

O’hara simply grumbles aloud. “Unbelieve.”

“Don’t test me Miguel. Before you stress out my baby”

Miguel raises his palm with snark, “You do 360 flips everyday on a motorcycle that can stick to walls like a tree frog. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Oh Prowler.” Olivia interjects in a sing-songy voice. “Mind answering a few questions? We need you to settle a score between us two.” She says pointing between herself and Miles G.

Aaron stiffens at the deceptively nice tone. “What do you want?” he asks in a robotic tone similar to Miles, though his is much deeper and possesses significantly much more vocal fry.

“It’s about the job,” Miles-42 explains. “About the hit she put out. She’s trying to lie and say she didn’t do it. But we know that’s not true because you showed me yourself.”

Aaron bites his lip beneath his mask as he chooses his words carefully “...That…is what I told you…”

“...But?” Olivia interjects.

Davis just sighs, “I’m sorry, Prowler.”

“You’re kidding.” The young Prowler asserts, even chuckling to invite room for dissent. Though it never comes. “You’re actually serious? Why?”

“It’s….complicated…”

“You don’t trust me? Is that it?” Miles begins raising his voice emphatically. “After everything, do you really not trust me?”

“Don’t be like that Prowler.Of course I trust you. We ride or die. You know that man.”

“So why didn’t you tell me? Am I just a scapegoat for you to fall back on.”

The elder Prowler lets his shoulder’s slump with a sigh, his head hanging from his neck dejectedly.

“Man of course not. I would never do that to you. This is for your own good.”

“Who decides that!?” Miles snaps, wildly throwing his arms in the air.

The grown man sighs once again. “I sorry, Prowler. I’ll tell you when this is all over.” He speaks with finality that sends the young Prowler’s agony over the edge.

“No! You tell me now!If it’s not these guys then who put out the hit? What do you gain by lying to me.”

But Aaron Davis just shakes his head.

“Who Prowler?” Scorpion creeps forward barring his clawed hand and his stinger poised to attack. “Don’t make me ask again.”

Aaron scans the room from top to bottom, his gaze lingering on the various pieces of tech that litter the war torn lab. “Not here man. Not now.”

Miles-42 raises his brow. “What? You didn’t let them wire you did you?”

“...Not me…” he concedes, pointing a swirling finger around the room. The villains all share looks of disbelief.

“Impossible,” Olivia sputters incredulously.

“It sure is. They offered me double to rig it myself. ”

Miles lurches toward his mentor, his claws splayed ready to fight. His voice ripe with anger. “You think I care who hears? I clean ‘em out too, all by myself if I have to.”

“Really now?” Aaron shifts his gaze to Jonathon. “Yet you couldn’t bother to finish the mission.”

“That doesn’t matter!” Miles shoves him, forcing him to back up into the bike. “Who is it?”

The elder Prowler scrutinizes the boy. He raises his hands submissively as if to surrender, before shoving Miles aside, claws bared as he makes a beeline towards Jonathon. The scientist yelps, bracing himself for the attack only for it to be intercepted by Miles-Spiderman. The young Prowler takes this moment to launch an attack from behind but Davis dodges in the knick of time, all without even turning around. Sending the young boy tumbling into his doppelganger. Davis skirts around the fallen boys toward the scientist, but is smacked in the ribs by Miles-42. By no means was it a good hit, but it didn't have to be. It was his weak spot. He deliberately targeted the injury that had forced Uncle Aaron into retirement. The elder Prowler grunts in pain, crumpling towards his injured side. Miles-1610 takes the opportunity to web his feet to the floor. Davis struggles against the restraints before he kneels to the ground of exhaustion, gingerly touching his side.

Miles activates his claw, it’s purple light running up and down its mechanical veins as it whizzes with power. The young Prowler stands tall above his uncle, looking out on him with contempt.

“Names. Now.”

Other villains circle. Still on the sidelines, but obviously hungry for action. If Miles doesn’t do him in, they surely will.

The man whispers weakly to his nephew. “Miles-”

“-Tell me!” The young man screams. “You owe me!”

Aaron lets his chin fall to his chest with a quiet exhale, “...It was all Vulture’s idea.”

Olivia tsks softly “I should’ve known.”

Scorpion's face darkens “Aye aye aye,” he mutters as shakes his head.

“Traitorous scum.” Kraven mumbles arms crossed, with each hand now possessing a death grip on the handle of each his blades.

“Who else?” The boy snarls, “You told me there were multiple.”

The man looks up apologetically at the young boy. Even though he was surrounded by some of the worst villains Brooklyn had to offer, they were not at the forefront of his mind right now. He never feared them the way others had, his greatest fear lied instead with his nephew. Not a fear that the boy would hurt or surpass him, but a fear of letting him down. A fear that had now, sitting here staring up at his broken nephew who he saw as a son, had been fully realized.

Davis lifts his head towards the young Prowler, but can’t bring himself to look him in the eyes. He runs through the list of names dryly.

“...Electro…Sandman…Mysterio and...”

“Don’t be shy. Spit it out ” The Hunter threatens brandishing his gleaming blades

Davis looks at Miles. He hoped, somehow, that the boy would be able to feel his remorse behind his vacant mask. “Prowler I-”

Miles grabs him by the collar. Aaron immediately throws his arms up to disarm the boy, but then his hands drop limply to his sides.

“...And Fisk .”

Miles drops his collar in shock. Aaron slumps to the ground defeatedly, groaning as he holds his wounded bones.

“Ahh Of course. Vulture and Electro have always been close, no?” Kraven reflects, lightly scratching his beard with his blade. “Electricity and telecoms make a fierce pair.”

“Beck always wanted to steal my recipe” Scorpion muttered, his face flushed red as he attempted to quell his simmering rage

“And they’re gonna come around here any second,” Aaron warns. “They’ll be coming for us all.”

“I’m counting on it.” Olivia remarks, reclining midair against the tentacles with a relieved stretch and a sigh. “Three against…” She takes a moment to count her opponents with her fingers, clicking her tongue as she does so, “...against twelve? It’s just so unfair don’t you think?”

Meanwhile, the young Prowler trembles with rage “...Wilson…Fisk?” he stammers. “You took a job…from Fisk?”

“Look, I know how you feel. I don’t want to work with him either but-”

“So why did you!?!” Miles-42 attempts to shove Aaron’s chest, but the man swipes his hands away.

“Since when did you become a sellout!?”

Aaron sits up straight, grunting from the pain as he does so. “Do you know what we could do with that kind of money? I could get you and your mom so far away from here-”

“And leave Brooklyn?” Miles shouts, taken aback. “Are you kidding? You’re trying to get rid of me?”

“This kinda life…things have a way of catching up to you. Physically. Mentally…Things are getting pretty bad right now, man. I just want you to lay low a bit. Get you a college fund, get a nice house in the suburbs. A girlfriend. I don’t know. Somewhere safer. Somewhere that’s green…nah, mean?”

“Suburbs? Green?”

Girlfriend?

He isn't sure which part upsets him more. The part about life he never asked for the notion that he couldn’t be the person his Uncle thought he was. The person he wanted him to be. But all of it is together is more than enough to make his heart sink like a stone.

“Something like that yeah” Uncle Aaron continues, his head bent with guilt. “I know you try to act tough like these things don’t get to you, I know you don’t want to talk about it but I know you. You don’t think I notice how you isolate yourself? How you lock yourself in your room after every job? How you stop eating? Even your mother notices. It worries her man, and honestly, it worries me too. ”

“You didn’t feel bad the first time you killed somebody? So I have some moments, but bounce back. I’m different now. I’m grown.”

The man points to Jonathon “Then what is he still doing alive? Why didn’t you finish the job? You had more than enough time. ”

Miles-42 suddenly stiffens “That has nothing to do with-

“-You don’t have the stomach for this, son.”

Miles is stunned into silence. Aaron hardly ever called him son unless he was absolutely serious.

“You’re so like your father that way. Maybe that’s it. Maybe I thought if I could make you more like me, I wouldn’t see him every time I look at you. My mistakes. My failures. How I failed to save him… I thought I was saving you and I thought the only way to do that was to make you like me. But I’m starting to realize-” he scrubs his hand down the front of his mask with a dejected sigh.

Miles G. braces himself. “...Realize what?”

“I let you down man, ” he huffs out. “You’re not built for this. I’m sorry son. You just aren’t that kind of guy.”

The young Prowler recoils violently at the assertion like a slap across the face. It takes him a second to recollect his bearings.

“I am built for this! I can do this! I didn’t come this far just for you to chicken out on me now!”

Aaron Davis raises a single finger towards the meek scientist.

“Then finish the job. Right here. Right now.”

With one look at the nervous Jonathon and the feeble puppy, the boy quickly finds his answer.

“But he hasn’t done anything wrong!” He gestures to the man passionately, “Why don't we just….go after people who deserve it?”

“Let me tell you something, son. It is a dog eat bitch world out there. You try new things, people get hurt. You keep your head down , stick to the script and play the game.” He jabs his finger into palm for emphasis. “Not knowing when to quit, that’s what got your father killed and I don’t want that for you. ”

“The Game? What if I’m sick and tired of playing.”

“Then you play it sick and you play it tired.”

In a sweeping motion, Aaron Davis kicks Miles’s ankles causing him to trip to the ground. The man then springs to his feet, making another attempt on the scientist's life. The young boy hastily grabs his leg only for Davis to kick the boy squarely in the chest. The elder Prowler is mere inches away from grabbing Jonathon when, out of nowhere, a massive sandstorm abruptly pushes him back. The cruel wind blinds the entire room. Everyone struggles to anchor their feet to the ground, squinting and covering their faces with their hands and arms. Many are skidding against the current despite themselves. The violent breeze and its particles biting against them like hundreds of tiny paper cuts.

“Look out!”

The elder Prowler dives towards Miles, just in time to save him from the massive bird-like creature barreling towards him. As the creature rises above the storm, the destructive wind suddenly ceases. Above then stands a man suspended mid air toward the ceiling, his body bobbing up and down as his wings flap to maintain the height. Each of his feathers shaped like large serrated blades, attached to a kind of backpack that would usually hold a parachute. Underneath he wears a large aviator jacket. To cover his face he wears a pilots helmet with a massive metal beak where the inhalation mask would usually be. His mouth, the only visible part of his face, sits in a large scowl.

“You’re a dead man walking, you know that Prowler?” His voice is gravelly, yet authoritative as he cracks his leather-gloved knuckles.

Nearby, a large heap of sand begins to rise, slowly taking the form of a man. His immensely robust build is shown off by a tight fighting, striped green shirt. His wide, square face grimaces with conviction as his left hand transforms into the shape of a spiked-mace ball.

The next two pairs of individuals appear at the same time. One gentleman materializes from a cloud of smoke, with a crystal ball for a head nestled on a violet, velvet floor-length cape stemming from an emerald and gold technical marvel of a suit. The other man zaps from place to place at the speed of light before settling on a spot next to the sandman. This man’s face is shrouded in a brilliant evermoving electric display in the shape of a star. His eyes glowing a bright, blinding white underneath. In a similar fashion, his clenched fists surrounded in sharp voltaic fixtures of his own doing, probably as a mindless product of his fierce demeanor. The black vest he wears is decorated with electrical wiring and lightning motifs.

The last man to enter dons a fitted police captain uniform. Black slacks and a white collar button up adorned with badges and emblems bordering on militaristic. On his sizeable, heavyset body sits a head far too small for his frame that it’s almost comical. His broad calloused hands rest on the two guns against his belt. He saunters in definitely, head held high and face riddled with immense loathing as if being forced to traverse through a landfill.

The uniformed gentleman eyes the room and it’s occupants cautiously before landing on the young Prowler. Upon seeing him, the man gives a wicked smile. Miles-42 gives a hostile stare of his own.

“Gentlemen! So glad you could all make it.” Octavious resumes her titular posture as she presses her fingertips together. “Hope it wasn’t too out of the way.”

“Skip the pleasantries with me Olivia,” Vulture chastises, spit flying from his mouth as he does so. “We all know what we’re here for.”

“Look around you Adrian. You’re clearly outnumbered. Despite us having an obvious score to settle, the odds are significantly better for us if we team up…for now at least. You know what they say, the enemy of my enemy…” she jostles hand between them, implying the rest of the expression.

“Do this for us and maybe we can forgive some of your…transgressions.”

“You knew we were coming, and yet you chose to stay? ” Electro crosses his arms, sparks flying haphazardly off his being. “I know a trap when I see one.”

“Maybe. Maybe not” Scorpion leans against the wall, inspecting his clawed hand. “But what choice do you have? Really, hidalgo? ”

Vulture sighs grudgingly, descending from the skies with a thud. “Fine. But the moment this is over…” he points to Olivia and then himself. “...We’re going to have a nice, long talk.”

Octavious smiles in the face of the obvious threat. “Why off course. Anything for you Mr.Toomes.”

“Hmmm, so I guys it’s finally time then.” Kraven meets Miguel’s gaze, smiling with glee. “Why don't we settle this as is common in nature?”

Kraven strides to the center of the room, Miguel peels himself from your grasp to do the same. Sharply exhaling out his nose with each laboured step until they meet in the middle. Kraven is almost a whole foot shorter than him. Though Miguel's imposing nature definitely adds to the bearded man’s obvious anticipation.

“Finally ready to fight now that mommy’s let you?” Miguel teases with a snort. “Just know that I’m not going to make this easy for you.”

“Good.The tougher the kill the better the taste,” he grins upward into Miguel’s face. “Any last words?”

Miguel thinks for a moment before slowly leaning forward, bringing his voice to a soft whisper.

“They’re arachnids.”

“What?” The hunter asks, bewildered.

“Scorpions aren’t insects, they’re arachnids. There’s a difference.” With a smug smile he points to the spider emblem on his chest. “I would know.”

Kraven’s smile fades. Before he begins to softly chuckle, which turns to a laugh, which delves to full amused howls. The display is so ostentatious and ridiculous that Miguel eventually chuckles as well.

The hunter wipes the tears from his eyes, boldly placing his hand on his shoulder.

“You,” he takes a moment to catch his breath “You are a funny one.”

“‘Yeah well,” he smiles. "I just had to clear that up before I did this.”

Miguel suddenly grabs him and launches him towards the other side of the room. Kraven manages to recover quickly, immediately pivoting so that his feet land on the ground and jams his large blade into the ground. The knife screeches as Sergei skids to a halt

The grin on his face is massive as he rises to his feet. “This will be a beautiful death.” And rushes towards him where the battle commences.

You startle Jess when you suddenly grab her by the arm. “You need to help me keep an eye on Miguel.”

She turns her head to watchs the two men fiercely exchange blows. Miguel expertly ducking and dodging. Eyes read with rages and sweat seeping through his suit.

“Are you sure we won’t be more helpful elsewhere? He’s fighting just fine.”

“Yeah, for now. But you know about his Rapture addiction right? He’s been a loose cannon all day. I give it thirty seconds before he does something stupid.”

She tilts her head skeptically. “He has the strength of three spidermen combined. I’m sure he can hold his own.”

“It’s not the fighting I’m worried about.”

She hums thoughtfully, “Touche. But we can fight and watch at the same time.” She loudly revs the engine of her bike.

“I’m taking Mysterio. Are you coming with me or not?”

“Do you even have to ask?”

She gives you a fleeting smirk before you both leap into action.

“Is it starting? I think it’s starting.” Peter tightens the straps of his baby holder. “Hold on let me stretch first, I don’t exactly run like I did 20 years ago.” He bends backwards, concerning cracking noises echoing from his back.

“Good thing I had a light lunch, huh, picklebutt.” He plants a kiss on Mayday’s head and pulls her homemade mask down even further.

“Don’t sweat it Peter” Pav takes off his wristlets that act as his yo-yo and starts winding it up. “This’ll be eaaaasy.’

Hobie playfully punches Pav’s shoulder. “Dig the confidence big stepper.” He attempts to give him a noogie, but Pavitir dodges. Causing them to delve in a light-hearted impromptu sparring match full of laughs and giggles.

“How should we spilt this up?” Penni wonders, typing purposefully of the holographic screens from the cockpit of her robot. “Rock, Paper, Scissors?”

“I call Electro!” Margo shouts, extending her pixelated electric arm that acts as her webbing, propelling herself forward towards the fight.

“What! No Fair.” Penni yelps, barreling after her “You’re going to have to share!”

“What? Can’t hear you from all the fight I’m doing!” Spyder-byte shouts playfully, already ducking and weaving attacks from her villain of choice

“Gimme the bug!” Porker shouts, pointing to Mac Gargan “Mess with the pig, you get the hands.”

Gwen frowns “Porker, pigs don’t usually have-”

“-I’ll take ol’ bird man over there, ya hear? ” Noir declares. “That rabble rouser is begging to be scrapped!”

“I’ll take that sad, tortured, lonely, miserable, decrepitat sand guy over there.” Pavitir nods over at the sandman, abruptly stopping his yo-yoing to reflect.

“I almost feel bad. Look at him. Behind those eyes sits a wounded soul.” He sighs earnestly before resuming his giddy nature.

“Anyways! Hobie! Wanna help me out with this one!”

Hobie smirks “Wot? Me? Don’t let me bog you down bruv. Surely you can handle this lot.” Brown laughs to himself, leisurely tuning the pegs of his guitar, “If you happen to find yourself in a bind, just get to leggin’ it. I’ll tap meself in.”

“Hobie.” Gwen reprimands disapprovingly. “I’ll go with you Pav,” she offers, patting him on the back.

“Guess that leaves the Doc to me.” Peter announces, finally finishing his geriatric stretches. “You wanna take this one with me Miles? For old times sake?”

The boy shakes his head, turning his attention to his doppelganger, whose gaze firmly fixed on his arch nemesis.

“I’ll help you take KingPin- or- er- Fisk I mean.”

“Don’t bother,” The young Prowler rejects. “Focus on the watch. And Jonathon. This is personal.”

“Personal?” Miles-Spidermn reflects on the KingPin in his own universe and his own personal slight against him. It takes a moment for the parallel to reveal itself to him. His eyes widen and his jaw drops at the revelation.

“Wait, wait, wait. You don’t mean…” he points a tentative finger at the man, who is now gleefully whipping out a police baton.

“...Is he the one who-”

“-Yeah, ” Miles G. responds curtly. “That over there is the man who killed my father.”

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i-swear-its-only-ironical · 8 months ago

Text

So, I did Latin for 7 years. WAIT, STOP HEAR ME OUT!

I did my final school exam on Ovid's "Metamorphoses" and the one thing that significantly shaped my view on media was Ovid's understanding of love.

When we think about romance and romantic love today, we tend to think of it as a saving grace, something that completes you. Falling in love in fiction implies a positive bond, something that will eventually help you. There are whole subgenres on the idea that "Love can save you"; "The Power of Love" is a pretty famous trope, right?

Now, Ovid also saw falling in love as a strong but, alas not always one that saves you. In almost every myth he reinterpreted in his "Metamorphoses" love creates - but only through destruction. Here, love is a force of nature, something even the gods aren't immune against. Love is rapturous and terrifying, more an uncontrollable forest fire than a tender candle flame. Love is complicated, the very act of falling so big that no one can even measure the effects it will have on the individual, the community, the world.

One of my favourite scenes in the poetic cycle tells the story about Apollo arguing with Cupido (son of Venus, basically her right hand). It goes like this:

Young Apollo just slew a beast. Standing on it, bloody bow in hand, he spots Cupido and brags: "Look at my skill, my power. I am the element tipping scales in wars, only one hit with my arrow is enough to kill the most gigantic monsters. What can you do with your weak bow, your mediocre arrows? Love, this feeble thing? Forever I will be the better archer between the both of us."

And Cupido, angry, just smiles: "My arrow may not kill any beast in one strike, but it'll strike you. And it'll destroy.

And it does. Apollo gets hit by an arrow and immediately falls in love with the nymph Daphne. Cupido also hits her with an arrow, not one for love but for eternal hate.

Long story short: Apollo runs after her, she begs her father, a river, to help her. He transforms her into a laurel tree, causing Apollo's heart to break. This is why he gets portrayed with a laurel crown in mythological pictures. He wears it to never forget his first love.

This, btw, is one of a gazillion stories where Apollo falls in love with someone and that person dies, gets transformed into flora or eternally hates him. Just because he messed with Cupido once (1)! Cupido and his mother Venus are incredibly petty and power hungry. Ovid's message is rather clear: do not fuck with love! Do not underestimate it! Don't try controlling the forest fire, you will burn yourself.

Love and the loss of it, in Ovids works, is more often than not associated with pain, sometimes implied to be worse than death, sometimes implied to be better than heaven. It creates, it destroys, it lets you learn and fall and stand up again. Love isn't something positive (or negative) - it just is. And you have to deal with that, whether you like it or not.

And I love the implications with this conceptualisation, because love hurts although it may be right, it may be cute, it may be essential. "Uwu such a cute romance sto-" NO. Cute? Love isn't cute, love is bigger than your tiny, short, pathetic life. Love is uncontrollable. Love is chaos.

Sooo, this is a fandom post after all, so I'll get to Stolitz now. If you're just here for me fangirling about Ovid (love that guy, we stan someone that knows his metrics), you can check out now. Hope you had fun reading!

If you think about love like Ovid things about it, isn't it oh-so-understandable why Blitzø fears it so much? It ties you to someone, you float in an ocean and everywhere you look, you see only horizon and waves. And for someone that only has experience with how love destroys (flashback with Fizz birthday, also whatever the fuck happened with his twin sister Barbie) falling of course feels like fucking drowning. You try to act normal, as if there would be normal ground under your feet. You don't try to swim (why bother? Never worked out anyway) and because you don't even try, you start sinking, choking on your own infatuation, with no safe haven, no anchor, no land in sight. You're alone, lungs filling with water, slowly losing consciousness while the sounds of the earth above you are getting quieter, the world desaturated of its colour.

"Are you afraid to love people, Blitzy?" - Of course he is? Why wouldn't he? Are you afraid of forest fires?

And to add on that: he feels completely alone in his own conscious, his emotions for Stolas. Because like hell he'd be vulnerable in front of his friends or crush. He's way to deep anyway, everything is dark blue. No one will hear you and even if: you would not want them to listen. Blitzø wants to drown in silence, not having a say in if he drowns at all because, like I said, love is way too big for you to control.

Similar with Stolas, although his view on the fire isn't that pessimistic. He knows how powerful emotions are and doesn't even try to contain them. At first, he almost revels in the waves. Did you ever swim at night, the stars above you multiplied by the water below you? There is nothing but the waves and the stars and the sky. There is nothing, there is everything. Stolas likes loving, he sees beauty and contempt in it. But eventually he sees that there isn't land in sight, that you alone cannot survive this vastness of nature also.

You cannot control the Ocean, cannot control the forest fire, but you can try to coordinate. This is the only way to survive this terrifying ordeal called love.

So he swims, tries to swim at least and he looks for Blitzø, realising they'll both go down with this relationship if they won't find the other between the waves. And he swims and swims, screaming, while Blitzø drowns him out. He cannot hear him, because he cannot accept that pretending there is land under your feet won't magically make the ocean disappear. He'd need to swim, but what good did that ever cause him?

Ok that's all. Thank you. :)

#helluva boss #stolitz #about love #ovid #latin mythology #asexual #aromantic #thought soup #mythology #romance #fiction #writing

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vvatchword · 1 year ago

Text

Who We Were

Although bruised and dazed, Eleanor didn’t wait for anyone. Their eyes burned on her. Sinclair’s mouth opened—he was going to ask her what had happened—

She squeezed her eyes shut and popped into being at Delta’s side—but he was still running. He flew past her in a flash. She chased him with her mind. He was running the perimeter of the fence, flying across a deer path he walked every day.

She flung out her arm, she reached into his brain, and she clamped down. She didn’t have an intent; nor had she scouted out the lay of his thoughts before she dug her tendrils in. She should have; she knew she should have; she knew better. Some regulatory barrier of his had broken loose, and when she squeezed down, she could feel it snap free entirely. She could feel him hit the ground skidding, even from 300 meters away.

She was at his side in a second. He lay spasming under a tree, kicking in mad circles, hands digging into his scalp as though attempting to bore into his own brain. Calming him was like trying to put a lid on a volcano. The fury inside was directionless, horrified, alien. The minute Delta felt her influence, he screamed, and to her shock, it was in someone else’s voice entirely.

Who the fuck are you? he asked. Where am I? What’s going on?

Eleanor’s mouth fell open, for he mouthed what he was saying at her as though he still had a tongue. He was spitting all over the ground.

Calm down! she said. It’s me, Eleanor!

Get me out of here! he said. Oh my god, they’re coming! Shit! Shit!

A far-off crunching, crackling sound, and someone calling out: the Sisters and their families were entering the woods.

He curled into a ball, dug his toes into the loam. He had writhed so violently that his shirt and swimming shorts had twisted half-off. He no longer made any sound, but there was ungodly screaming inside of him—a mind-boggling despair, an all-consuming self-loathing.

“Daddy!” Eleanor said. “Calm down! You’re safe! I’m here!”

I hate you! he said. I hate you! I hate you!

His jaw was moving, his lips were shaping sounds, but all that came out of his mouth were whining, moaning noises pitching up and down. Eleanor stared down in utter horror. His face wasn’t only expressive—it was someone else’s. Delta had never looked like this. Eleanor released him.

To her relief, he stayed there, rocking back and forth. He was still making sounds as though he could speak, and beat his head into the earth over and over. The other Big Sisters appeared beside her.

“What’s going on?” Masha asked.

Delta froze in place, trembling violently. Fuck! Fuck! Shit!

Daddy, please! Eleanor said. Don’t talk like that!

Fuck you! Delta spun in a circle, burying his head in his armpit. Tell them I’m sleeping!

Eleanor started crying.

“What did you do?” Cecilia whispered.

“Nothing!” Eleanor said. “Daddy had a memory and I… I didn’t mean to but he… I… he remembered his past and then he…”

Stop talking! Delta said. Stop talking! Give me the fucking Heal-All already! Jesus-fucking-Christ! Jesus-fucking-fuck!

“Daddy, please!” Eleanor said. “We’re not in Rapture anymore!”

Then tell Sinclair I want it! he said. Tell him I need it! He’ll say I can have it!

“Oh!” Cecilia said, eyes brightening. She popped away.

One of the littlest kids found them first. When he saw the girls gathered around Delta, he ran off, shouting: “Mr. B is hurt! Mr. B fell down!”

The next second, Cecilia was running up the path with Sinclair thrown under her arm. He started kicking the minute he realized there was an audience.

“That’s all right! That’s all right!” he said. “Thank you, I can still walk. I can still… good lord, Sissy, it’s a limp, not a missing limb. John! John, what are you doing?”

Delta hissed. Stuttering bestial nonsense poured out of his mouth.

Tell him I want the Heal-All and he can fuck off!

Eleanor and the Sisters looked up at Sinclair miserably. Cecilia took his arm and relayed the message. For a moment, Sinclair stood utterly still. Horror flickered across his face. Then the look was gone, replaced by a slow, spreading smile.

“That’s John, all right,” he said, and limped up the path. “John, it’s me, August.”

Delta snarled and spat. The earth was dark with blood and tears and spit and sweat. He’d kicked up fallen leaves and foliage into a circle. His shorts were twisted into a coil over his thighs.

Get me the fucking Heal-All already! he said. I’m dying!

Cecilia kept her hand pinched on Sinclair’s, her eyes flickering with light.

“I can’t get you any Heal-All, John,” Sinclair said, kneeling down with a grunt. “You can get better without it now. Did you know that?”

Don’t talk to me like I don’t fucking know! Delta bared his teeth like a wild animal in a trap. You did this to me! Not me, you! You!

Sinclair took a deep breath. “Yes. I did. But I’m going to try and make it easier on you from now on. You don’t have to fight anymore. I got you back from Fontaine.”

The shuddering stopped. When it returned, it was less violent. Delta blinked up at Sinclair.

You’re serious?

“I’m serious. Not only did I get you back from Fontaine, I got you right back up to the surface, just like you wanted. See?” He dug his fingers into the loose earth, raised it, let it trickle through his fingers.

Oh. Delta watched the dirt crumble. I’m still not fucking you.

All of the Big Sisters flinched. Eleanor’s jaw dropped.

“That’s just fine, John. That’s just fine.” Sinclair slapped him on the shoulder and slumped against the tree beside him. “You know what, you taught me something important.”

I want Heal-All, Delta said.

“There’s no Heal-All on the surface, John.” Sinclair breathed out and dug his cane into the soil, relaxing the heel of his hand against it. A third Delta’s size, and he was completely relaxed. It was like watching a person take a siesta by a grizzly bear.

Delta watched him suspiciously, eye flicking from his cane to his hand to his face.

Something’s wrong in my mouth.

“Oh, never mind that. Think on this: you’re free,” Sinclair said. “You can do anything you want. You know, there’s a pond over there, and a barbecue, and lots of good folks who love you. You like kielbasa? Coleslaw?”

I have a headache. Why is it so hard to talk?

“Oh, you just took a bad spill, is all,” Sinclair said, pulling out a carton of cigarettes. “How's about a cigarette?”

Gus, there’s something wrong with my tongue.

Sinclair flipped a cigarette out and jammed it against Delta’s lips until he opened up.

Jesus! Don’t do that! You’re gonna break it!

“Then open up faster.” Sinclair cleared his throat. “Say, ladies—if some of you will assure the others that all is well and we’re just getting Mr. Barton here through a bad headache… ah, do stress the need for a little silence hereabouts.”

Delta’s wild eye followed the five girls who raced off into the trees. It flicked back to Sinclair as he brought out a lighter. The Big Sisters were pale with horror all around them. Delta didn’t seem to see them. Eleanor squelched the urge to reach in and see what he saw. She could feel him radiating an intense confusion.

“Real tobacco all the time, John,” Sinclair said, lighting him up. “Every day, whenever you want it.”

Thank Christ. I hate that seaweed shit.

Eleanor had seen Delta smoke a hundred times. She’d never seen him hold his wrist like that, balancing the cigarette on the end of his finger. He always had the cigarette clamped down like he was afraid it would blow away.

“What happened to your clothes?” Sinclair asked. “Do you need help?”

Delta glanced down.

Fuck, he said.

With stiff hands, he yanked his shorts up and his shirt down.

“I missed your constant swearing,” Sinclair said. “But the girls might not like it. You have a lot of girls, by the way. Hell of a father.”

What? Delta’s voice grew horrified. What are you talking about?

“Nothing you don’t already know.” Sinclair lit his own cigarette. “You know, the new you is a lot more polite and helpful. You should start your own handyman business.”

Gus, what the fuck is going on?

Delta’s hand came up as though he were thinking about signing something. Then he caught himself and dropped it again.

Something’s wrong, Delta said.

“No, it only feels wrong,” Sinclair said. “You’re just having a nightmare right now, that’s all. You’re going to wake up feeling fine.”

You mean I had another attack?

“Right! Just an attack.”

Well, fuck.

“But you know, you haven’t had one of those in a long ol’ time, so that means you’re getting better and better and better.”

Oh, thank Christ. I don’t remember what just happened, though. I mean, I thought I saw Tate. It was like I was there.

“Oh, Tate’s old news, honey. Long dead.”

No shit! Couldn’t happen to a nicer gal.

Sinclair started laughing uproariously. He slapped his knee and groped in a pocket for his handkerchief.

It wasn’t that funny.

“Oh, I just didn’t expect it, that’s all. Besides, I just like hearing you talk.” Sinclair wiped at his eyes.

Yeah, I’m still not fucking you. Wait, we were looking for medicine, right? Or was it the shrink?

He was starting to sign every other word, although it was half-baked, and mostly into the ground.

“We just saw the shrink. She wasn’t the right fit for you, honey.”

I don’t know. I kinda liked her.

“Don’t worry about it. We had a whole conversation about that just last night. It was nothing personal, as I recall… but don’t let me bore you with the details. You’ll remember it in a second.”

Right. Right.

Delta’s full-body shudder had sunk off to a low-key shiver that ran down to his hands. He had stopped trying to say words out loud.

“You need my hankie right now something awful, son.” Sinclair held it out, shook it.

Delta felt under his nose, drew his shivering fingers away. They glistened with blood.

What the hell did I do?

“You ran into a wall.”

Jesus Christ.

Delta took the hankie and pressed it under his nose. It took him several tries. His grip was unsteady, his wrist stiff, and he didn’t seem to have an idea of where his body was in space. He pressed it against his cheek and his ear a couple of times.

Sinclair smiled. “Well, don’t worry about it. Just clean up. You’re doing just fine.”

I’m covered with blood, but sure.

Sinclair’s eyes popped and he laughed once. “Hell, it’s good hearing you like this.” He looked up at Cecilia. “Does he often talk like this when I can’t hear him?”

Cecilia shook her head no.

Who’s that? Delta asked.

“That’s Cecilia. She helps me take care of you. She thinks you’re swell.”

Delta squinted at her. Flushing red, Cecilia squirmed behind Sinclair.

She’s young for a nurse, he said. They hiring out of grade school now?

Without warning, Sinclair laughed again. He looked absolutely smitten.

“The squint!” Sinclair said. “Look, girls, that’s the old John. Oh, I thought for sure he was gone.”

Eleanor could feel their dismay. Nobody liked old John. Utterly ignorant of his own failure, Delta swung 'round to look at the gaping faces around him like he was seeing them for the first time. He lingered on Eleanor’s face. His mouth fell open a little. He had forgotten the handkerchief; it hung limply over his fingers.

I know you.

“You do!” said Sinclair. “You know her! What’s her name?”

I… Delta pressed the handkerchief back against his mouth. I can’t remember.

The shudder was starting again in his shoulders. His eyes unfocused, staring off into space.

“Oh, it’s all right. You’ll remember in a second. Look, the long and the short of it is that you don’t have to worry about a damn thing right now. You’re actually in a great place. Would you believe it?” Sinclair asked.

Would I believe it? Delta repeated. He sounded robotic.

“You’re on the surface, right where you always wanted to be. There’s a big group of people here, and all of them adore you. The sun’s setting right now and you can watch it go down. There’s a big rack of ribs with your name on it. I got iced tea in the fridge. Tomorrow morning, I am personally gonna make sure you get a big stack of biscuits and gravy.”

Delta’s body had begun to relax, one taut muscle at a time. The shoulders slowly lowered. The hips sank to the earth. The knees stretched out. One of Delta’s enormous arms flopped to the earth, as broad across as Sinclair’s shoulders; with his other hand, he took out his cigarette and blew a lazy smoke ring.

“Iced tea,” Delta signed. He turned his glazed eyes to Sinclair’s. Where’s the iced tea? My head hurts. I need Heal-All.

He had begun to sign in earnest—up in the air, toward Sinclair, complete with proper facial expressions. Eleanor could feel the horrible stranger sinking back into the darkness.

Sinclair laughed. “I can get you some aspirin. How’s about some aspirin, John?”

Eleanor’s lips pinched together. Don’t call him that.

She didn’t dare say it.

“Aspirin sounds good,” Delta signed. He set the cigarette back in his mouth and slowly lifted to his feet. “I feel bad. My head hurts. My throat hurts, too.”

“Nothin’ a good night’s rest won’t fix.”

Delta took the cigarette out of his mouth. He clenched it like it was going to blow away. His whole body was shaking.

“Sleep sounds good,” he signed. “I’m tired.”

“You’ll want to eat something first.”

“Oh. Yeah. I forgot.” Delta wobbled in a circle. “Eleanor! There you are! Where are the floats?”

“I… I left them in the garage,” Eleanor said.

“Well, you’d better go get them, then, shouldn’t you?” Sinclair said, stabbing his cane into the ground. “John, honey, help me up. I’m a mess in my old age.”

“You’re not old,” Delta said, throwing his arm under Sinclair’s. “What happened? I don’t remember walking out here.”

“You got a bad headache and had to sit down. Don’t worry, we were with you the whole time.”

“Good.” Delta blew out a stream of smoke and shook his head. “I feel bad. I want aspirin.”

“We’re headed straight there,” Sinclair said. “Aspirin, ribs, and a big glass of ice-cold tea: just what the doctor ordered.”

~*~*~*~

Something was definitely wrong with Delta. He staggered like he was drunk. He couldn’t feed himself; he slopped most of his food on his chest. Eleanor quickly shuffled him into the kitchen to finish his meal out of the sight of the husbands and boyfriends, who had begun eying him in ways she didn’t like. He took a handful of aspirin—she measured it out carefully—and then shuffled off to his bathroom to take a shower. He could not undress without toppling over. When she trembled under his weight, she took a deep breath and cast out a thought.

Sinclair, she thought. Help me, please. We’re in the shower.

Sinclair appeared, right on cue, acting as though he’d simply walked by and happened to notice them. He bowed to Eleanor as she shut the door.

“Why, I just noticed you two seemed to be having some trouble!” he said.

Together, they took turns propping him up and making sure he was clean from head to toe. Soon enough, Delta hobbled out, wrapped in his bathrobe, one hand on Sinclair’s shoulder and the other on Eleanor’s. Both Eleanor and Sinclair were soaked through.

“Do you want to put him to bed, or shall I help?” Sinclair asked.

“I can do it,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Just call if you need anything,” he said, winking, and strolled off.

While Delta didn’t seem angry anymore, he also didn’t seem terribly concerned about anything. He didn’t ask about the other Sisters, he didn’t seem concerned about the floats anymore, and he started signing only single words. When Eleanor dropped into his brain to see how it was faring, her heart sank. It was like he had reverted to the Delta of two months prior, the Delta who couldn’t shave himself. What she had seen as a brightening of his intellect had been the return of some sense of self, and now that self had retreated into the dark.

Once he was safely tucked in, Eleanor came out again. Fireflies sparked in the woods outside, and peepers and crickets had begun cheeping in the trees. The sky was sprinkled with stars. The bonfire had been lit. Everyone was bunched around it, laughing and roasting marshmallows.

Everyone except for Sinclair, who sat on the swing, rocking back and forth with little kicks.

“How’s chief doin’?” he asked.

“He’s… he’s not good,” Eleanor said in a tiny voice.

Sinclair sighed and threw his head back.

“I didn’t do anything,” Eleanor snapped.

“I’m not tryin’ to imply a damn thing here, darlin’,” he said. “I just care about that boy, that’s all.”

“Was that really what he’s like?” Eleanor asked.

“That was him from a bad place.” Sinclair stopped swinging. “From Fontaine’s labs. Early on.”

“I didn’t do it.”

“Then how’d it start?”

“The light outside… it’s like the light grew dim, and a little green… and he saw a lady in the darkness. She had Hypnotize, I think.”

“That’d be Ava Tate.” Sinclair took a deep drag of his cigarette.

“You were there,” Eleanor said. She folded her hands into fists.

“Yes, I was. I got him out of there safe and sound, in fact.” Sinclair smiled grimly. “Believe it or not, I have never wanted to hurt the man.”

“He was so different,” she said in a small voice. “I didn’t realize he was so… so…”

“Filthy?” Sinclair laughed. “He was a sailor, honey. He swore all the damn time. He had a cute girl on his arm every ten seconds. The man was a sexpot.”

Eleanor shuddered.

“He was a fully-fledged man long before you were born, honey,” Sinclair said gently. “To make him this way, they had to clip his wings. Hell. They had to take them straight off. He was only ever meant to play second fiddle to you.”

“I didn’t like him,” she said in a small voice.

“Mmm. Yeah.” Sinclair leaned down, set his chin on his hands. “That was him as a splicer, hun. Full madness. Cancer probably set in around the same time. Of course you didn’t like him. Nobody likes splicers.”

There was something in the way he said it that made her feel guilty. He was frowning. His expression was unreadable in the unsteady dark.

“If we fix him,” Eleanor said, “if we revert him, will he just be… just like that? He’ll start screaming and swearing and fighting and…”

“I don’t know. We know for sure what will happen if we don’t try, and it’ll be all of that and more.” Sinclair smiled grimly into the fire.

Eleanor sank to the porch floor, folding her dress beneath her. Sinclair shifted. When she looked up, he was sliding to the other side of the swing and slapping the seat next to him.

Grudgingly, she lifted to her feet and settled on the far end, her knees pressed together.

“It’s hard, loving someone when they’re this way,” Sinclair said. “And I’ve got to bear the responsibility of it. I let my pride speak for me. When John rejected me there at the end, well. I just let my pride take me all the way to the bank.”

“And people like me didn’t matter at all,” Eleanor said.

“It wasn’t a question of mattering. It was a question of accepting what kind of world we lived in,” Sinclair said.

“I was a child,” Eleanor said.

“I’m not saying it was right. I’m saying I believed in a world where human beings pay the piper, and sometimes that human being was a child. I didn’t much believe in luck, and I didn’t much care about the power of an environment or society. Figured people could make something of themselves if they’d only try, even kids. See, people like me…” Sinclair paused, licked his lips. “‘Nature, red of tooth and claw.’ You know the line? Well. I figured we were living it. Human beings are part of nature, too, you know. Let the child learn to survive, I thought. Then we’ve made something of him.”

“That’s not how nature works,” Eleanor said. “That’s never been how nature works. It’s complementary. It’s full of teamwork. Individuals would be nothing without other individuals. They even evolve in ways that mean that they don’t have to compete with each other. You can see it all around you.”

Sinclair nodded, smiling at her. Her jaw snapped shut. She felt frightened, frozen, blank: she had been about to repeat her mother verbatim.

“No, no, don’t stop. You’re right,” he said. “Nature is so much more than that. But I made a mistake. It’s the mistake that a layman makes, eyeballing some complex subject and assuming he can get the idea of it through summaries. Except the summaries I was reading weren’t by biologists or sociologists. They were by political scientists and lawyers seeing what they wanted to see. There I was, thinkin’ I was so smart, being taken as a fool, going for what made me felt better instead of what was true.” He smiled up at her. It seemed honest enough. “You are the right person to take this to, you know. I’m sure you got to read some of my own philosophy before taking it apart.”

“Yes.” She looked down at her hands, lacing her fingers together. “I read some of your essays when I was 12.”

“Oh, you poor thing.”

“I hated you so much,” she said softly. “I blamed you for why I was… this way.”

“You were right to.”

“Why don’t you care that I hate you?” she asked. “Even when the other girls hated you, you didn’t seem to care. You don’t seem to care about anything.”

She stopped herself before she went on: I want you to care about something because caring is human, and you don’t feel like one.

“Darlin’, I’ve been hated my whole life. What’s new?” he asked. “You can spend your time beating yourself up, or you can go make things better every way you know how. Was I a monster? Oh, darling, I was. I made monsters of other people, too, all the way down to the man I loved the most. I get to go to bed tonight with an image of him reliving some of the worst pain of his life. That’s a great deal worse than hate, I think. Imagine seeing Jacob Marley every night of your life, not just at Christmas—and his misery is all your fault. You know there’s no great hereafter—you’re stuck with what you’ve done—you’re stuck with who you were.”

The fire was leaping up, its outermost flickerings green like witchfire. Eleanor couldn’t say anything at first. Sinclair let the silence sit. She twined her fingers together.

“I think I made it worse,” she said softly. “I was asking him why he liked you and I was angry he wouldn’t change his mind. I wonder if it… I wonder…”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it,” Sinclair said. “You’re trying to do the right thing. No reason to think the leopard’ll change his spots.”

“Why did you, then?” she asked. “What changed?”

“Well.” He cleared his throat. “Rapture fell apart. And eventually the only places money mattered were the vending machines. And when the vending machines stopped working, well!

“Point being, without a society, without people, Rapture didn’t matter anymore. And I think it’s when you start connecting dots: that I can only have what I have because of other people, one way or another. I could only have a Rapture with clean, sweet air because of a woman halfway across the city who grows trees underwater—that’s what she knows how to do best, and nobody else can do it, and when she dies, everything dies with her. I could only have a clean office because someone came in with a dustpan, and they could only afford to clean it if there was a life worth returning to somewhere else. A human being who didn’t feel like their life was worth living went and shot themselves full of ADAM and then I had a brand new splicer ranting and raving in the hallway and a waste-bin spilling over. If the people who keep your world from falling apart don’t feel like it’s worth it anymore, that’s it. It’s the end.

“And humans are so much more than what they do. They inhabit more than a home—they inhabit their bodies, you understand? And what’s so funny about that is that I already believed a man was limited to his body. Hell, most of the reason I came to Rapture was because I was being forced by society to ignore what my own body preferred in general.”

Eleanor glanced up sharply. He was looking her straight in the face. He kept talking, unblinking.

“Then I started taking other people’s bodies away from them.” He took a deep drag on his cigarette and flicked it down into the ashtray beside him. “That right there, honey? That’s not philosophy. I could talk myself into thinking I was a good man all day long, but human beings need their bodies, they deserve the time they have in them, and they need the freedom to take those bodies where and when they desire. I had no right to warp them into tools of my own, even if they had signed a dotted line somewhere.”

“You mean you thought people signed up to be lab experiments?” she asked. “Why the hell would you ever think something like that?”

“Figured they knew the philosophy, same as me, and what it meant to fail. That’s all.” Sinclair stretched back, popped his arms. “Thanks for letting me talk this out, by the by. It’s not conversation you can have with just anybody.”

“If we can bring… John back,” Eleanor said, her voice growing smaller and smaller, “he’s going to hate us, isn’t he?”

“Well, he’ll hate me,” Sinclair said. “He won’t hate you. If he’s able to remember that you two met in the city, he might even stick around.” He took a deep breath. “I’m worried about only one thing. See, he didn’t try to solve problems—he tried to leave them. He ran from every romance he ever started. I’m concerned he’ll get enough brain cells to mash together to realize what’s happening to him and then he’ll try to sprint off somewhere before he’s well enough.”

“He’d leave us,” she said softly.

“Don’t make my mistake, honey,” Sinclair said softly. “You have to be ready to let him go. He’s not yours and he’s not mine. He’s his. If I’d done what was right, I’d have sent him topside the first minute he started getting jumpy. Then, at least, he would have been spared this—this half-life. I couldn’t solve his problems. Neither can you. There’s a point where he has to deal with himself. That said…” Sinclair drew out another cigarette. “I think he’d think the world of you. You’re a hell of a woman, Eleanor Lamb. You came through a hell of your own. You overcame someone who swore she loved you, and probably thought she loved you, and you were able to see what love really was. Hell, for that matter, I’m proud of John. You’re probably the first problem he ever solved—ah, if you’ll pardon the phrasing.”

“He had to help me,” she said. “He was going to die.”

“He didn’t have to at the end,” Sinclair said. “As he didn’t have to save me. I wonder what he was thinking. I don’t think that I’ll ever know. I think when a man is made to kill, the way he had been made, there’s something meaningful about refusing to. And maybe that’s enough, and I’m fine if that’s all it is.” He shrugged. “At least I had him for a while. Of course, that’s easy to say, after a certain space of time.”

He glanced over at her, and it seemed as though something meaningful was glittering behind those eyes. She thought she might know what it meant, and she hated it.

UPRISING: BLACK SCRAPBOOK HUB

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