#once again the PARALLELS are PARALLELLING

[batsovergotham]

i don’t know who i am anymore pt 2

"You've got the costume. You've got the power. You're Spider-Woman. Act like it."🕷🕸️

Main!Mark Grayson x Spider-Woman! Reader

warnings: smut, some angst, fluff, yay flashback time!!!

w/c: 18.4k

a/n: this chapter isn't really crucial to plot I left it in because I promised there would be more fluff n smut

Your room is excessively neat. Too quiet.

The graduation gown sits from your closet like it’s criticizing you. The cap is on your desk, tassel still sealed in the tiny package the school handed you during final week. You haven’t taken it out yet. You kind of enjoy the concept that if you don’t touch it, it won’t be real. That maybe the day won’t happen.

Your phone buzzes. Mark.

> you up?

You grin before you realize you’re smiling.

> barely. do i have to wear the cap or can i just glue the diploma to my chest

Mark replies quickly.

> new fashion trend but yes ben will cry if you don’t do it correctly

You pause, then smile wider. Ben. And May. They’re going to be there.

You’re going separately from Mark. Not because you’re concealing anything, you’re not. You’ve mentioned him before. Told May he made you laugh. Told Ben he helped you with chem. They know his name. They knew his voice, from the day he picked you up after school and honked twice in the driveway while you ran out the door, blushing.

But you haven’t spoken it out loud. Not yet. He’s yours, but in the manner that doesn’t always require explaining. And today? Today doesn’t feel like the proper day to characterize it.

You text him back.

> you bringing tissues? i’m guessing you’re a crier

Mark texts back.

> bold of you to think i have human emotions wait hold on just made eye contact with my mom and now i’m crying in the kitchen

You laugh and type back.

> idiot

Mark shoots back a text.

> your idiot

You ride to the ceremony with May and Ben. Ben drives. May has the radio tuned to a station that’s only playing slow, melancholy graduation music from the early 2000s. You sat in the back seat, legs hopping, trying not to pick at your gown.

Ben peers at you in the rearview mirror. “You okay, kiddo?”

You nod. “Just… a lot.”

May turns to face you. “You’ve earned this. You hear me? All of it.”

You nod again, but your throat’s a touch too tight to speak anything more.

May smiles. “And hey. That kid you mentioned once or twice—Mark, right? He going too?”

You pause.

Then nod. “Yeah. He’ll be there.”

She raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t press.

Ben snorts. “Is that the one who almost took out a mailbox trying to parallel park?”

“Ben.”

“I’m just saying. Bold choice.”

You grin. And feel your nerves relax just a bit. You notice Mark from across the field.

He’s in line with the rest of the alphabetically arranged mayhem, his hat slightly awry, robe blowing in the breeze. He notices you the second you locate him, like his radar is tuned to you and you alone. He doesn’t wave. He just grins. You don’t wave either. You just grin back. And yet, that’s louder than anything else going around you.

You spot them before Mark does.

You’ve known Debbie and Nolan for a while, at least, in the casual way people know the parents of their close friends. There were awkward half-smiles in the pick-up line outside school, courteous welcomes and dinners on evenings where you’d help Mark study for Chem, the one time Debbie handed you a tissue at a parent-teacher conference because your sinuses were acting up and she “always kept some handy.”

She’s standing beneath a tree now, away from the rush of post-graduation mayhem, wearing her usual blue button up, grey jeans, her hair tied in a tight bun. She seems peaceful. Warm. Like someone who’s handled the camera at a thousand school events and never missed the moment that mattered.

Nolan’s beside her. Tall. Hands in his pockets. Sharp posture. Watching the audience with that softly attentive face of his that doesn’t offer much, but never feels unfriendly either.

You tap Mark’s arm. “Your parents.”

He follows your eyes, nods. “Right. Let’s go say hi.”

You move together, falling into step as always. But your heart’s racing quicker now. They don’t know yet. About you and Mark. Not really. You’ve been around. Been to his place. Had dinner with them. Laughed at Nolan’s dry comments about his novels. Helped Debbie clean the dishes once after Mark burnt the noodles.

But that was all under the guise of just friends. Now? Now it’s different. Now you and Mark have held hands in school hallways, snuck kisses behind gym buildings, murmured vows in late-night conversations about how college won’t change how you feel. You’ve spent months orbiting each other with the type of gravity that only pulls tighter the longer you remain.

And they’re about to find out. Debbie sees you first. Her face brightens up.

“Oh!” she exclaims, coming forward. “There’s my favorite graduate!”

You open your mouth to say something, but she hugs you before you can.

“You looked so grown-up on that stage,” she adds, hugging your shoulders before stepping back. “Made me tear up.”

Mark coughs. “Mom.”

She turns to him. “You too, sweetheart. Obviously.”

Nolan provides a modest nod. “Congratulations, both of you.”

“Thanks,” you say, and you truly mean it.

Debbie’s glancing between the two of you now. Her eyes narrow. Just a bit. You gaze at Mark. Mark glances at you. And then Debbie says it.

“…You two came here to hang out together?”

Mark nods. “Yeah.”

Debbie’s stare lingers. “And sat together?”

You nod. Her brows rise.

“And walked out of the ceremony together?”

Mark touches the back of his neck. “Uh. Yeah. We’re... we’ve been together for a while now.”

The silence isn’t heavy. It’s loud. In a warm, astonished kind of manner. Debbie blinks once.

Then she claps her hands together. “Finally.”

Mark’s head twitches. “Wait—what?”

Nolan lets out a low sigh that could be the ghost of a chuckle.

Debbie glows. “Oh, please. Did you honestly believe I didn’t know?”

You gaze at her. “You—what?”

She pats your shoulder, smiling. "Sweetheart, the way you look at him? That’s exactly how I used to look at his dad, back when he didn’t have so much gray."

Nolan clears his throat. "It’s not that bad."

She smiles lightly, unfazed. "Keep telling yourself that, silver fox."

Mark’s mouth opens. Closes. “You knew?”

Debbie shrugs. “I didn’t know-know. But I guessed. And I hoped. And now I know for real, so now I get to celebrate.”

Nolan eventually talks again. “You make him calmer,” he explains simply. “That’s not easy.”

You gaze at Mark, shocked. Mark, for once, has nothing to say.

Debbie goes closer and offers you another hug, softer this time. “We like you, okay? We liked you before. But now it’s official.”

You grin into her shoulder. “Thanks, Mrs. Grayson.”

“Debbie,” she corrects softly. “You can stop with the formal stuff.”

You pull back. Then Debbie turns to Mark and slaps his arm.

“Ow!”

“You could’ve told us.”

“I was going to!”

“After the ceremony doesn’t count.”

Mark moans. “I wanted to do it right.”

Nolan arches a brow. “Did you think this needed to be a thing?”

Mark shrugs. “I don’t know! I didn’t want to make it weird.”

“It’s not weird,” Debbie says. “It’s you. And it’s her. It makes sense.”

Mark glances at you. And in the midst of the grass, surrounded by yelling family, confetti, and the loud sound of someone’s off-brand speaker playing a graduation playlist, he smiles like the sun’s just shining on you.

You grab for his hand. He accepts it without hesitation. And Debbie doesn’t say anything. She only offers a glance that says, ‘Good.’ Nolan nods once again. And just like that, it’s real. They know. They approve. And you didn’t even have to explain.

You don’t stay long.

There are pictures to take, relatives to manage, and dinner arrangements with May and Ben. But before you go, Debbie makes you promise to come by next weekend for dinner,“Nothing fancy. I’m making spaghetti again. He can’t burn it this time if I’m supervising.”

Nolan presents you a graduation card. Doesn’t tell anything about what’s inside. But when you open it later in the vehicle and see the check, your mouth drops.

Mark just shrugs. “They like you.”

You and Mark sit on the hood of his car after nightfall, still in your gowns, still excited from the day. You put your head against his shoulder.

“I can’t believe they knew,” you whisper.

“I can’t believe my mom used the phrase ‘finally.’”

“She’s been rooting for us longer than we have.”

Mark laughs quietly. You turn your head to look at him. And he’s already gazing at you.

Mark shifts awkwardly, but his voice is steady. "I meant it. Whatever's next... I want you there with me."

You smile, a little breathless. "Good. 'Cause I wasn’t planning on doing any of it without you."

He leans in. And kisses you. Not rushed. Not performative. Just real. And sweet. And slow. And as he draws away, he lays his forehead against yours.

“Guess we’re really doing this, huh?”

“Guess so.”

And the world, which earlier felt unimaginably large, suddenly feels exactly the perfect size.

The bell over the restaurant entrance jingles as you go inside, shrill and high-pitched like it always is. It’s the same sound that’s welcomed you since you were ten years old, strolling in on muddy boots and sunburnt cheeks, pleading for pancakes and chocolate milk after soccer games you didn’t even win.

But tonight, everything sounds different.

Tonight, the air feels thicker. Softer.

Like it knows this is the final time you’ll come here as a high school student. As a kid, really.

May and Ben are already in the back booth. It’s the one they usually pick, the one with the view of the parking lot and the flickering neon sign in the window that still hums on humid evenings. Ben’s waving as soon as he sees you, beaming so broadly it makes his spectacles drop down his nose. May’s almost halfway out of her seat, reaching for you with both arms.

“There she is,” she says, drawing you into an embrace. “My brilliant, beautiful, officially-graduated girl.”

You squeeze her back, chuckling into her shoulder. “I didn’t trip walking across the stage.”

Ben lays a palm over his heart. “Truly, a miracle. She’s grown.”

You sneak into the seat opposite from him, your cap tucked under your arm, your graduation case still grasped like someone would take it back.

“I feel like I should get a trophy for surviving that many speeches,” you add, laying the certificate on the table.

May chuckles, eyes gleaming. “You did great. You seemed so calm up there.”

“I was internally screaming,” you acknowledge.

“Still looked good doing it,” Ben says.

You smile, soft, bashful. “Thanks, guys.”

A server drops by to deliver you menus, but you wave yours off. “I already know what I want.”

Ben laughs. “Same grilled cheese you’ve ordered since fifth grade?”

“Why mess with a classic?”

You slump back into the old vinyl of the booth, letting yourself breathe for the first time all day. The walls of the café are yellowed from time, and the linoleum flooring creak under sneakers when the crew goes by. A couple of toddlers are fighting about jelly packets at an adjacent table. The Coke machine hisses behind the counter. It’s all so natural.

And for a second, you forget you’re standing on the verge of something new.

The meal arrives swiftly. Grilled cheese, delicately crisped. Crinkle fries, shared between you and May. Ben’s burger is too huge for one hand, and he gets mustard on his shirt inside the first five minutes.

It’s perfect. Comforting.

“Flash tripped,” May says mid-bite, and you snort.

“I know. He almost took out three people with him.”

Ben shakes his head. “That boy’s gonna become a joke someday. I can feel it.”

You grin. “He already is.”

The laughing fades slowly, and for a minute, you all just eat in silence. Until May leans over and gently nudges the diploma case on the table.

“Feels real now, doesn’t it?”

You nod. “A little.”

Ben observes you closely. “How are you holding up?”

You pause.

And shrug. “Weird. Good-weird. A little afraid. Kinda floaty.”

“That’s about right,” he adds. “Floaty’s normal.”

“I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and it’ll still be senior year,” you say. “Like all of this is some long fever dream.”

May hums. “If it is, it’s a pretty good one.”

You nod, then peek out the window, watching the tail lights burn red in the parking lot, the streetlamp flickering along the sidewalk where you used to ride your bike in figure-eights.

They don’t bring up Mark right away. But you can feel it coming. The question is floating there, dangling in the gap between bits of food and sips of milkshake. And then, eventually, when May folds her napkin neatly next her plate, she says it.

“So... we saw Mark.”

You keep your focus on your fries. “Yeah?”

“Before the ceremony,” Ben adds. “He was with his parents. Looked nervous.”

You grin faintly. “He doesn’t like crowds.”

“He kept looking for you,” May adds gently.

You peek up, just for a second. You nod slowly. “Yeah. He did.”

That’s all you say. That’s all they want. They don’t push. And let it be.

The check comes. Ben attempts to wave it off. You grasp it. May intercepts. Eventually, the server just splits it without asking.

You stroll out onto the parking lot, the air heavy with that delicious, post-rain smell, concrete and fresh grass and something electric that always comes with summer nights. The wind plays with the edges of your robe, the cap clasped in your hands now instead of placed uncomfortably on your head.

May hugs you again, slower this time.

“You did it, kid,” she murmurs. “You’re already braver than I ever was.”

You put your face onto her shoulder. “You raised me. So that tracks.”

Ben pulls you into a hug after, tighter than usual. He doesn’t say anything. He just pats your back, then kisses the top of your head as he did when you were seven and skinned your leg on the concrete.

And then they hand you the keys.

“You’re driving?” you inquire.

“Just once,” Ben adds. “You earned it.”

You grin and take them.

The engine growls to life beneath your fingertips.

The headlights slashed across the lot.

May gets into the passenger seat, her hair gleaming white beneath the dashboard light. Ben gets into the back. You take the long way home, past the school, past the restaurant, past the park where you once fell off the swings because you were showing off for a boy you don’t even remember now.

No one talks much. But the calm is lovely. Real. Safe.

Later, you’re cuddled up in bed, cap and gown hanging on the back of your door, when your phone buzzes.

> how was dinner?

You type.

> good

Mark replies quickly.

> did they ask about me?

You reply just as fast.

> kinda. but i didn’t say anything. not yet. not because i’m ashamed of you or anything. just... because it still seems like ours. and i want to keep it for me a bit longer.

Mark replies.

> i’m yours anyway take all the time you need

You gaze at the screen.

And you know what it is to have something that no one else has to comprehend. Not yet. Not right now. Just something that exists between text messages and lingering stares and shared milkshakes after the sun goes set.

The first thing you notice when you come on campus is the loudness.

Move-in day is exactly what everyone told it would be, horns blasting, trolleys squeaking, parents hollering directions over one another, someone shrieking over a mattress that’s missing and another youngster who’s obviously already locked themselves out of their room.

The third level smells like paint, hot carpets, and too many expectations jammed into too-small apartments.

Mark’s lugging a package labeled “DO NOT CRUSH,” and you’re following him with a laundry hamper that should legally require a forklift.

“Third floor,” Mark mutters. “No elevator. Of course.”

“You’re the one who said we should take the stairs for the ‘real dorm experience,’” you huff. “I’m currently experiencing the early stages of spinal collapse.”

He flashes you a grin. “Worth it.”

You nearly drop the hamper on his foot.

Room 3B is already open.

Inside, the place looks like a battle zone, half-unpacked books, a rolled-up poster of Seance Dog, a lava lamp, and a desk strewn with receipts and takeout menus. Sitting in the center of it all, arms crossed, is a guy with thick wavy hair and a look like he’s just done analyzing your moral integrity.

“You’re late,” he says.

“Love you too,” Mark answers without skipping a beat.

You blink. William Clockwell stands, wiping chip crumbs off his shirt. “I was beginning to think you’d chickened out of college entirely.”

“Please. I’d never leave you unsupervised in a shared living space.”

“Wise. You’d come back to a fort built up of Pringles cans and overdue library fines.”

Mark drops the box on his bed with a bang and turns to you. “Meet William. My best friend since first grade. He’s a threat. Don’t trust him with your password or your Netflix account.”

William’s already eyeing you. Not in a scary way, more like a scientist exploring an unexpected variable.

You offer your hand. “Nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard... a lot.”

“All of it true,” William says, shaking it. “And most of it flattering. You, however... you’re the famed accomplice?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Accomplice?”

“The one who helped him pull off that science fair stunt in senior year?”

Mark moans. “Don’t start.”

“I still think that lava is a questionable project theme for teenagers.”

You laugh. “It was definitely not up to code.”

William grins. “I like you already.”

Move-in goes swiftly, surprisingly rapid, since Mark has the organizational skills of a dropped ice cream cone. You hang posters, plug in chargers, uncover his lost headphones tucked beneath a package of granola bars. William occasionally offers in color commentary, largely to keep Mark modest.

“You realize half your shirts are inside out, right?”

“I fold with my soul, not my hands.”

“You fold like a raccoon on Adderall.”

You like William. He’s got a sharp tongue, but there’s something stable behind it, something loyal. You can tell he’d go to war for Mark if he had to. Probably with a clipboard and a thorough sarcasm itinerary. Eventually, he leaves to call his parents, and the room falls quiet.

Mark crashes into the bed like a ragdoll. You sit on the edge near him.

“You okay?” you ask.

He nods. “It’s weird. I’ve known this was coming for years, and now that it’s here, I keep thinking I overlooked something.”

“Like what?”

He shrugs. “I dunno. Something back in high school. Some part of me that didn’t get packed.”

You smack your shoulder with his. “It’s probably wedged under your bed with all the missing socks.”

He snorts. “Probably. I’m glad you’re here.”

“I wasn’t going to miss this.”

“I mean... not just for move-in.”

You look at him. And he looks at you.

“I know you’re not living on campus,” he continues. “And I get why. But selfishly? I’m still gonna miss you.”

“You’ll see me all the time.”

“I’ll still miss you.”

You smile. Then lean in and kiss him, gently and assured. When William steps back in, he doesn’t even flinch. He only raises an eyebrow.

“Should I knock next time?”

Mark doesn’t flinch. “Probably.”

You draw back and stroke the bed beside you. “We were talking about how messy your half is.”

William grins. “A true bonding moment.”

Then he tosses a granola bar at Mark’s head. “Also, I stole your pillow. Yours smells like stress. Mine smells like ambition.”

Mark rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. And William’s smiling too. Because they’ve been doing this forever. And now? You’re part of it too.

The email enters your inbox at 8:03 a.m. on a Tuesday.

You’re sitting at the kitchen counter at May and Ben’s house, still in your pajamas, hair jammed into a sloppy bun and a bowl of cereal halfway to your lips when you notice the subject line.

OSCORP SCIENCE SUMMIT: TRAVEL DETAILS + FINAL PRESENTATION SCHEDULE

The spoon doesn’t make it to your mouth.

You gaze at the screen for a whole thirty seconds before you even open it. Then your heart does this odd fluttering thing like excitement and sickness got together and decided to have a party in your ribs.

You scan the first few lines.

It’s official. You’re going.

Three days, all-expense paid. Two nights at a hotel you’ve never heard of. Formal dress necessary. Your name is on the list of junior interns presenting in the Friday morning breakout session titled: Next-Gen Bio-Application Engineering: Theoretical Pathways to Active Adaptives.

Which is a clever way of saying “the tiny tech you helped patch together on week two might actually be used in something real someday.”

You scroll down deeper and freeze at the sentence in bold.

"Guest passes available. Bring someone to support you."

You reread it. Then again. And one more time, like the words may transform into something else if you stare too closely. Your brain’s already finished the thought before you do. Mark.

You wait to bring it up. Not because you’re worried he’ll say no. You know him. He would say yes to everything you asked, even if it included three hours of lab lectures and the world’s most terrible folding chairs. No, the reluctance isn’t about doubt.

It’s about timing. Because college is already its own type of storm. You’re commuting. Juggling. Oscorp in the mornings, courses in the afternoons, late-night homework cuddled up on the couch with Ben napping in the next room and May softly bringing you tea without asking if you’re overwhelmed. Because she knows. Of course she does.

Mark, on the other hand, is living dorm life, fully absorbed. Sharing a room with William, childhood best buddy and snark personified. Navigating early lectures, social circles, and the continuous circle of dining hall food complaints. You see him virtually every day, sometimes between classes, sometimes beneath the quad tree you informally claimed in week one. You bring food. He brings coffee. It works.

You just haven’t found the right time yet. Not till Friday night.

His dorm is noisy when you come. Not party-loud. Just friends in college-loud. William’s got music playing, something instrumental, symphonic and dramatic and slightly sci-fi, and he’s rearranging the bookcase with the seriousness of a man prepping for combat.

Mark greets you at the door with a grin and a bag of peanut M&Ms. You collapse on his bed. He sits next you, half on, half off, long legs splayed out, shoulders crushed to yours. William barely looks over.

“Tell me you’re here to stop him from putting his entire sock collection under the bed.”

“I’m here for the candy,” you reply. “The sock situation is between you two and your God.”

Mark laughs. “It’s fine. I just lost, like, three.”

William tosses a book onto the shelf with a thump. “He’s making a sock graveyard and calling it neat.”

You grin, but it flickers. Because now the moment is arrived. And your heart’s already straining to race ahead of your words. Mark notices quickly.

He leans in a little. “What’s up?”

You grab your phone from your sweatshirt pocket and deliver it to him, the email still open on the screen. He scans it rapidly.

“Wait—this is... you’re presenting? At a science conference?”

You nod.

“I thought Oscorp just had you cleaning stuff and filing data sheets.”

“I did,” you say. “Until they realized I actually know how to think.”

He glances up. “That’s huge.”

“Yeah,” you answer gently. “It kind of is.”

He keeps reading, eyes searching the lines until he reaches to the bold one. 'Guest passes available. Bring someone to support you.' He glances at you. You try not to fidget.

“I was going to ask,” you say, a bit too hastily. “I mean, it’s just a couple days. You’d get a badge and everything. Probably sit through boring panels, but there’s a mixer night and some showcase things. And the hotel has free breakfast. I think.”

He’s already nodding.

“Wait—really?”

“Of course.”

You blink.

“That was fast.”

Mark lays the phone aside and nudges your knee with his. “You’re kind of a big deal. I want to see you be a big deal.”

Your face gets heated.

William clears his throat without glancing over. “I’m emotionally moved. Truly. Let me know when to trigger the romantic strings.”

Mark flips a pillow at his face. “You’re not invited.”

William catches it midair. “Wouldn’t go. Too many scientists. I prefer my heartbreaks abstract.”

You and Mark broke out laughing. Later, after William’s gone to the lounge to microwave something, and Mark’s sweeping crumbs off the blanket, you lean against him again.

“You’re really okay with going?”

“More than okay.”

“I might be a mess.”

“I’ll bring tissues.”

“I might drag you into science debates.”

He shrugs. “You’ll win.”

“I might panic the morning of.”

Mark leans down and joins his fingers with yours.

“Then I’ll be there. Exactly when you need me.”

You grip his hand. And for the first time since the email arrived, you genuinely believe it.

The suitcase won’t close.

You press down with both hands, knees braced against the side of Mark’s dorm bed, biting your bottom lip like somehow that’ll make the zipper listen. It doesn’t. Mark steps in just as you let out a noise halfway between a moan and a battle cry.

“Need help?”

“No,” you reply between tight teeth. “Yes. Absolutely. I’m a disgrace to physics and rubix cubes.”

He grins, lays his coffee down on the desk, and crosses the room. You sit back and let him take charge. He doesn’t even flinch at the amount of clothes flowing over the edge.

“What did you bring? Five days’ worth of clothes for a three-day trip?”

“I need options.”

He raises an eyebrow. “How many ‘options’ are made of this much wool?”

“That’s my presentation blazer.”

“You brought three.”

“They’re different colors!”

He manages to pull the zipper halfway when one corner of a collar gets hooked, and he groans in feigned discomfort. “This feels like a test.”

You smirk. “It is.”

“You’re evil.”

“And yet here you are, helping me.”

He gets the bag closed on the third time, straightens himself, and mock-wipes perspiration off his forehead. “That’s love.”

“Don’t think I didn’t see you slip an entire shoebox of chips into your backpack.”

“Conference food is a lie and I refuse to starve.”

You giggle, then slump back onto the bed. Mark lies alongside you, the springs squeaking slightly beneath his weight. From across the room, William speaks out without turning away from his laptop. “For the record, this is the most hetero rom-com shit I’ve seen all week.”

“Thank you, William,” you say without raising your head.

“I strive for accuracy.”

Mark rolls his eyes. “Ignore him.”

“Oh, I do. Daily.”

William flicks a pencil into the air and catches it. “Try not to make a scene at the conference. I don’t want to get a call stating you threw your jacket at someone during a panel discussion.”

“Only if they deserve it.”

Mark tilts his head toward you. “You nervous?”

You shrug. “A little. I mean, it’s Oscorp. And I’m not even technically a complete intern yet. I’m still under review.”

“You’ve got this.”

“You have to say that. You’re legally bound as my supportive moral rock.”

He leans forward, pressing a kiss on your temple. “Yeah. But I also mean it.”

You close your eyes. Breathe in. And for a second, the anxieties settle. That night, you stop by May and Ben’s to grab the remainder of your belongings. Your trip suitcase sits on your bed, folded clothing pouring out like your closet burst in slow motion. May leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you with that mom expression, fond and amused and somewhat frightened.

“That’s a lot of clothes for three days.”

“I need backup outfits. Blazers. Professional things. Emergency snacks.”

“You sounded like me before my first teaching conference.”

You turn, holding up two virtually identical coats. “Be honest. Which says ‘young but intelligent up-and-comer’ and not ‘sweaty undergrad who could faint during Q&A’?”

May tilts her head. “The one on the left. But bring both. Just in case.”

You grin and slip both into your carry-on.

Ben pops his head in a minute later with your printed itinerary. “Highlight the address. And the emergency number. And don’t eat anything off of a strangely unmarked buffet tray.”

“You’re projecting,” you mumble.

Ben winks. “Yes. Because I once had food poisoning at a tech convention and had to lie down under a folding table for two hours. Don’t repeat my sins.”

You giggle, then grab for your charger and zip up the final bag.

May steps closer. “You’re ready for this, you know.”

“Yeah?”

She nods. “You’ve been ready for a while. You’re just now having the room to prove it.”

You feel something constrict in your neck. “Thanks.”

“Take notes. Make eye contact. And for the love of God, don’t drink coffee before you speak.”

“Not even one cup?”

She raises an eyebrow.

“...Half a cup?”

“Fine. Half.”

Ben tosses in, “You call us if anything weird happens. If the hotel’s suspicious or they lose your badge or you feel weird, you call.”

“I will.”

You mean it. You embrace them both at the door.

May lingers just a little longer, smoothing your hair back and whispers, “I’m proud of you.”

The airport is pandemonium. You anticipated it to be bad, it’s early morning, middle of the week, and every airport is full with business travelers and Oscorp interns in wrinkled blazers, but this? This is something else. The type of travel day that makes you rethink every decision that lead to this point.

You and Mark make it through security fairly unhurt, though your tote bag gets flagged and they yank out your backup phone charger like it’s a nuclear weapon. He laughs to the TSA agent about you being a “dangerous scientist” and you answer by flicking his ear once you’re free of the conveyor belt.

“I’m never traveling with you again,” you murmur, shouldering your suitcase.

“Bold of you to assume I won’t save your life at least twice on this trip,” he answers with a grin.

It’s still early enough that your mind feels hazy, like your ideas are wrapped in fog. But you’ve got your boarding pass, your coffee, and the boy who makes you forget your own tension standing beside you, so you can’t complain too much. Not out loud, anyhow. You board in group C.

No frills. No improvements. Just economy seats, an air freshener that smells like lemon floor cleaner, and exactly six wailing babies within hearing range. You slide your carry-on beneath the seat, buckle your belt, and peek sideways. Mark's already glancing out the window, fingers tapping softly against the armrest. His leg is bouncing. He hasn’t even taken off his bag yet.

“You okay?” you ask.

He startles. Just a bit.

Then nods. “Yeah. Just... not a big fan of flying.”

You tilt your head. “Really?”

He shrugs. “I mean, I’ve done it. Vacations. Visiting family. But it’s never... comfortable.”

You nod, taking him at his word. There's something weirdly appealing about the idea that Mark Grayson, your easygoing, always-has-a-snack boyfriend, gets frightened on an airplane.

“Do you want the aisle instead?”

“No,” he responds hastily. “I’m good here. Just... could be quiet for a bit.”

You smile. “I won’t hold it against you.”

You reach over and hold his hand, giving it a slight squeeze. He squeezes back. Doesn’t let go. Takeoff is tough. The normal lurch. The little dip. The odd quiet before the engines scream.

Mark holds the armrest with his free hand, mouth tight. You keep your eyes on the window, chatting gently about absolutely anything else, how bizarre the hotel itinerary was, if Oscorp really required four distinct lanyard colors, whether your presentation slide backdrop is too dark for a morning panel.

By the time you achieve cruising altitude, he’s breathing easier.

“Still with me?” you ask.

He nods. “Yeah. Just... odd to not have control, you know?”

You don’t question it. You don’t realize how much that statement means to him. Not yet. You fall into a groove. You bring out your laptop to examine your presentations for the tenth time. Mark pulls out a sketchpad. He claims he brought it for note-taking, but you know better. About half an hour in, you peek over and discover he’s sketching. You’re not surprised, he’s usually doodling on discarded napkins or the margins of lecture notes, but this sketch is different.

It’s you.

Focused. Half-turned toward the window. Elbows on your tray table, face lighted by the illumination of your laptop.

“You’re drawing me again,” you mumble.

Mark doesn’t look up. “You always make a good subject.”

“Flattering.”

“Factual.”

You smirk, but you don’t push. You just let him sketch. There’s something calming about it. Something grounding. You go back to your slides. You make a few notes.

And when you put your head against the window a short time later, you close your eyes and let the hum of the engine cloud everything else. The open seat fills around forty minutes in, middle-aged man, Bluetooth headphone, travel pillow that smells like a retirement home. He nods pleasantly and instantly falls asleep with a snoring. You and Mark gaze at each other. His lips twitch. You mouth, help me.

He grins and inserts one earpiece into your palm. “White noise playlist. You’re welcome.”

You grab it and lean toward him. He doesn’t move away. Somewhere over the mountains, you start chatting about Oscorp.

“I don’t want to screw this up,” you mumble. “It’s my first real shot at being taken seriously in the field. And I’m not even a complete intern yet. If I mess up this presentation...”

“You won’t,” he adds simply.

“You can’t know that.”

“I do,” he answers. “Because you’re better at this than anyone else in that building. And so even if you trip over your words or forget what slide you’re on, they’re still going to remember you.”

You gaze at him.

“Because I’m a mess?”

He grins. “Because you’re the kind of mess that builds things.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to. You just let your hand slip into his again, and hold on.

When the flight attendant passes with beverages, you both grab ginger ale. You divide a bag of pretzels. You make silly jokes about cloud forms. He sketches a bit more, this time a window full of stars and a silhouette that looks disturbingly like you.

You rest your head on his shoulder after that. He leans into you. And you doze there, someplace between time zones, somewhere above everything else. The instant you step out of the gate and into the rush of arrivals, you feel it. Not simply the dry, over-conditioned airport air or the soreness in your shoulder from carrying your bag but the prickling awareness that something’s going to happen.

And then you see him. Tall. Hair blown from the breeze flowing in via the automated doors. Expensive sunglasses sat on top of his head. One hand in his pocket, the other carrying a tablet. Leaning nonchalantly against a pillar like he’s posing for a GQ piece he pretends he doesn’t know he’s in.

Harry. You halt mid-step. Your heart leaps.

“Holy crap,” you murmur.

Mark glances at you. “What is it?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. You’re already moving. You run to him. Not fast. Not theatrical. Just real. Like your body chose before your mind did. Harry glances up just in time. And suddenly your arms are around him.

“Whoa-!” He drops the tablet, startled, but then he’s holding you back, tight, one arm around your waist and the other wrapped protectively behind your head.

“God, you’re alive,” you whisper into his shoulder.

Harry laughs, shaky and full of something old and familiar. “I’m alive? You’re the one who vanished into Oscorp’s basement for six months.”

You don’t let go right away. Neither does he. When you eventually move back, your hands are still on his arms, and his are still ghosting over your ribs like he’s terrified you could disappear again.

“You’re taller,” you say.

“You’re lying.”

“You look exhausted.”

“Okay, that one’s fair.”

He grins. And you realize you missed that grin more than you realized. Mark approaches a few seconds later. He doesn’t interrupt. But you sense him standing there. Close, quiet. You turn to him, cheeks heated.

“Mark, this is Harry. Harry, this is Mark.”

Harry reaches out a hand. “Harry Osborn.”

Mark shakes it. “Mark Grayson.”

There’s a beat. Then Harry’s smile curves just a bit. “Boyfriend, right?”

Mark blinks. “Uh. Yeah.”

You nod swiftly. “Yeah.”

Harry glances at you. Then at Mark.

“Cool,” he says. Smooth. Even. Nothing in his speech gives anything away. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Mark’s jaw tics once. “Same.”

You fold your arms, still beaming, trying not to jump on your heels. “What are you doing here? I thought you were upstate for prep.”

“Was. Came back yesterday night. They required someone to organize arrival. I volunteered.”

You blink. “You volunteered to be my glorified chauffeur?”

Harry shrugs. “I’m owed a few favors. Plus, I get to make you uncomfortable for the next three days. Win-win.”

You laugh. It’s the type of chuckle that leaves you a bit breathless. And behind you, Mark adjusts his weight. Harry notices. Of course he does. He tilts his head, gaze moving between the two of you. His smile doesn’t fade, but it steadies. Calibrates.

“You guys get any sleep on the flight?”

“A little,” you say. “He passed out. I went over my slides till I hated them.”

“Typical.”

“I’m very productive when miserable.”

“Is that why you did all your AP Chem homework during a stomach bug in eleventh grade?”

“Don’t remind me.”

Harry turns to the luxury car sitting at the curb. “Come on. I’ve got the luggage already loaded. Hotel’s fifteen minutes out.”

The ride is quieter. You and Harry talk, filling the stillness with inside jokes and tiny recollections. Mark listens. He doesn’t insert himself, doesn’t attempt to compete. But you can sense him thinking. When you gaze at him, he grins. But it’s a touch tighter than normal. Outside the hotel, Harry pulls your bag from the trunk before you can resist.

“Still allergic to letting people carry things for you,” he says.

“Still refusing to let me pull my weight.”

“That’s because you’re still made of string cheese and spite.”

You smack his shoulder. Mark lingers at your side. You can almost hear the silent question emerging.

Harry glanced at the check-in counter. “I’ll go confirm your rooms.”

And suddenly he’s gone. You and Mark are alone again. And the quiet between you is weighted.

“You okay?” you ask quietly.

Mark nods. “Yeah. Just... I didn’t know how close you two were.”

You pause.

“We’ve known each other since kindergarten,” you say. “He’s family. Not in a romantic way. Just... he’s always been there.”

Mark nods again. But he doesn’t say anything else. You grab his hand. He takes it. And squeezes. But his eyes linger on the door Harry just disappeared through. You gaze at your reflection for longer than you mean to.

Your hotel room mirror is too clean, too harsh under the LED lights. Your hands are firm, but only because you’ve previously practiced every action five times. Blazer on. Lip balm. One final breath. You look nice. You look prepared. You don’t feel prepared.

The presentation isn’t till tomorrow, but Oscorp’s giving a formal supper tonight to welcome all their younger researchers, mentors, and visitors. A pre-conference “casual professional” gathering. The sort that’s theoretically optional, but not really. You know better than to skip it.

Mark is waiting in the hallway when you step out of your room. He glances up and genuinely blinks.

You halt, feeling self-conscious. “Too much?”

He shakes his head, slow. “No. You look...”

You raise a brow.

“...Insanely smart,” he finishes. “Like someone who’s way too smart for me and could prove it without even trying.”

You laugh. “That’s the goal.”

He extends out his arm. You link yours through his. And together, you head down. The banquet space Oscorp leased is obnoxiously lovely. Soft jazz sounds over ceiling speakers. Waiters in black vests hover around offering trays of sparkling water and bite-sized fusion dishes no one can recognize by look alone. The house smells like fresh carpet and expensive aftershave.

You see Harry almost immediately. He’s toward the front of the room, speaking with an older man in a fitted three-piece suit. He catches your eye mid-sentence, and his smile transforms instantaneously. Real. Bright.

He excuses himself, strides directly for you.

“Damn,” he exclaims, grabbing you into a hug. “You clean up good.”

You laugh. “You’ve seen me in a lab coat and stained hoodies. This isn’t a high bar.”

Mark stands next to you, quiet, smiling as nicely as he can.

Harry turns to him. “Grayson.”

“Osborn.”

They shake hands. It’s not unfriendly. But it’s not warm, either.

“Glad you could make it,” Harry adds, his tone level.

Mark nods. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

You feel it. The weight of their words. The way they glance at each other for a second too long.

You cut in swiftly. “Are we sitting? Or do I have to elbow someone for a table?”

Harry grins again. “Come on. I reserved you a spot.”

You’re seated between them. Harry on your right, Mark on your left, the table full of Oscorp interns and mid-level academics sipping wine like it’s just grape juice and mumbling names you dimly know from science papers.

Mark doesn’t speak much. He listens. Observes. His hand keeps resting on his thigh. Yours finds it midway through the appetizers. Harry’s talking to someone across from you about your project as if he developed it himself. He name-drops your work with ease, familiarity, even pride.

You’re not sure if it’s flattering or suffocating.

“You should’ve seen her in the early stages,” he continues. “She caught a pattern in the test batches that even the senior team missed. Half of the engineering pivot happened because she caught it first.”

The researcher, someone named Dr. Li, nods appreciatively. “Impressive.”

Mark glances at you. You grasp his hand under the table.

Dinner is a flurry of voices and clinking glass.

Harry chats. Laughs. Teases you. Reminds you of the time you blew up a beaker in tenth grade chem and attempted to blame it on a draft. Reminds you of when you fell asleep in AP Bio and drooled over your textbook. You laugh along. But you can feel Mark’s quiet. Not cold. Just... distant. He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t challenge. He doesn’t lean in or crack jokes the way he typically does. When the dessert comes, some fancy chocolate swirl with a name you can’t pronounce, he finally moves near.

“You okay?” he whispers. You gaze sideways.

“I think so.”

“You seem quiet.”

You hesitate.

Then. “You do too.”

He smiles, warm and crooked. “Just watching.”

You push your knee against his under the table.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

He glances at you.

“I am too.”

The night finishes gradually. People wander out. Harry sticks behind to chat with a few execs. You and Mark stroll outside into the quiet hotel courtyard, where the air is cooler and the lights are dimmer. You lean on a railing. He stands by you.

“I think I’ve eaten seventeen thousand calories in stress,” you say.

Mark laughs. “Worth it.”

You gaze up at him.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

You nudge him. “You sure?”

He nods. “It’s just weird.”

“What is?”

He exhales, brushing a palm over his face. “Seeing you like this. In your element. With people who’ve known you forever. And I’m... the new guy.”

You step in closer. “You’re not just the new guy.”

Mark looks at you. Really looks. And the anguish flickers there for only a second.

“You hugged him like you forgot I was there.”

You blink. “ Mark-”

“I get it,” he says. “You guys have history. I’m not trying to damage that. I just... I think I didn’t expect to feel so on the outside.”

You swallow. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“I want to be.”

He leans on the railing now, viewing the stars. You stand beside him. And say nothing. Because it’s not about jealousy. It’s about space. And who fills it. And who doesn’t.

You barely speak a word during the elevator ride. The silver doors glide shut with a gentle hiss, trapping you and Mark in with mirrored walls and soft overhead lighting that makes your reflections appear like strangers.

Your feet hurt. Your head is noisy. And you can sense him standing just slightly aside from you, not far, not frigid, but... far enough to notice. The elevator dings quietly. You lead the way out. Room 1024. Your room. You key in gently and enter inside, the subtle click of the door behind you making the whole suite feel 10 times quieter than it did this morning.

Mark follows you in, letting the door close gently behind him. You kick off your shoes. Your blazer lands on the back of the desk chair. He waits near the doorway, arms folded, watching you move.

“I’m gonna shower,” you say gently. “Wash the Oscorp off.”

Mark nods.

You disappear into the restroom before he can say anything else. You stand under the hot water until your fingers wrinkle. Not because it’s chilly. Not because you’re exhausted. Because it’s all finally catching up to you.

The dinner. The pressure. Harry’s return. Mark’s peaceful remoteness. Tomorrow’s presentation.

You’ve been holding it together all day, smiling, nodding, networking. Laughing too loud as Harry taunts you. Squeezing Mark’s hand under the table to make up for all the words you didn’t know how to speak out loud.

And now? You’re just... afraid. The type of afraid that doesn’t always have words. When you emerge out of the restroom in an enormous Oscorp T-shirt and bare feet, Mark’s still awake.

He’s sitting on the side of the bed, scrolling absently through something on his phone, hair unkempt from running his fingers through it too many times.

He glances up when he hears you.  And grins. Small. Tired.

You sit next him. He puts the phone down.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble.

Mark turns slightly. “For what?”

You gaze at your hands.

“For hugging him like that. For making you feel like a third wheel. I didn’t mean to.”

Mark doesn’t answer right away. But he doesn’t move away either.

“I’m not mad,” he says finally.

“I know.”

“It’s just... hard to feel like I’m still catching up. Like you and he share a language I don’t speak.”

You nod slowly. “We kind of do.”

He glances at you. You don’t flinch.

“I wasn’t easy to be friends with. I was awkward, and weird, and talked too much about things no one cared about. I wasn’t-” you swallow, blinking fast, “I wasn’t the kind of person people stuck around for.”

Your throat tightens, but you push through it.

“But he did. Even when he didn’t have to. Even when everyone else grew up and got cooler and louder and better… Harry never treated me like I was something he’d outgrown.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting for steady breath.

“When I bombed that exam and thought it meant I’d never be good enough… when Flash made me feel like I was nothing… When I hated even looking in a mirror, Harry was the one who showed up. He didn’t try to fix it. He just sat there. Just stayed.”

You finally glance up, and it’s harder than you expect, because Mark’s there, listening. Really listening.

“I’m not… I’m not saying it like it’s some big thing. I just-” your voice wavers, fragile and messy, “I guess I’m scared. That maybe… if people could outgrow me back then… it could happen again.”

You blink hard, shoulders stiff, trying to pretend like you’re fine. But your voice is too small when you add, almost too soft to hear.

“I don’t wanna lose you too.”

Mark doesn’t interrupt. You suck in a breath, trying to steady yourself. Mark doesn’t say anything at first. He doesn’t have to. He’s sitting close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, solid and steady and right there. Not moving away. You drop your eyes to the comforter again, cheeks burning for a whole new reason.

“And just so you don’t get the wrong idea…” you mumble, your voice low but honest, “I don’t feel that way about Harry. I never have.”

The words sit there for a second, heavier than you meant them to be.

You risk a glance up, half-expecting him to look mad or jealous, but Mark’s just… looking at you. Soft. Real.

“He’s my best friend,” you add, quieter. “But you’re… different.”

You don’t know if he hears the full meaning of that. You don’t even know if you could say it out loud yet. And he stays right there. He hesitates.

“You sure about that?”

You glance up. Not defensive. Just honest.

“I know what I feel. And it’s not for him.”

Mark scans your face. Then nods.  And eventually relaxes a little. You cuddle into the pillows. Mark lays alongside you. Not touching yet. But close. The hotel room is quiet save for the hum of the air vent and the faint shuffling of linens. You pull the cover up to your chin and look at the ceiling.

“I’m scared,” you mumble.

Mark doesn’t pretend not to hear you.

“Of tomorrow?”

“Of messing up. Of freezing. Of speaking the wrong thing. Of them realizing I’m just a kid who got lucky.”

He turns toward you.

“Hey.”

You don’t look at him.

“You’re not lucky,” he adds gently. “You’re good. You worked for this. You earned it.”

You still don’t speak. So he leans out and takes your hand. And suddenly you can breathe again.

“You’re going to get up there tomorrow,” he adds. “And you're going to do exactly what you’ve always done, blow people away and forget that they scare you the moment you start talking.”

“You make it sound easy.”

“Because I believe in you.”

You eventually gaze at him. And he’s still gazing at you. Like you’re the only thing that matters.

In a bit, the lights go out. The city lights dimly through the drapes. You lie in the dark, eyes open. Mark’s breathing is steady. You shift closer.

Your fingers are still tangled loosely with his beneath the blanket, and you finally glance at him, heart doing its awkward little somersault thing when you catch how soft his expression looks. He must feel you staring, because he turns his head a bit and meets your gaze.

“I didn’t know how to bring it up. With Harry and everything.” you murmur.

He exhales, long and slow. “I didn’t wanna say anything either. I mean, it's not like I didn’t trust you or whatever. It just… felt like I was watching something I wasn’t part of.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek for a second. “I get it. If I were you, I’d have felt the same way.”

Mark’s mouth quirks, almost a smile. “I was sitting there next to you, nodding along like an idiot while Harry’s talking about the time you both got banned from a Six Flags for hacking the rollercoaster music system.”

You groan, pressing your face into the blanket. “That was one time. And we didn’t get banned, we got strongly discouraged from returning.”

He laughs, and it’s real now, quiet, but warm. “I dunno. He made it sound like they were gonna put your faces on a watchlist.”

You grin against the sheets, heart hammering a little too fast again, but not from embarrassment anymore. From something else. Something hopeful. You lift your face, your voice going soft again.

“You know none of that means anything, right? I mean… not like this means something.”

His eyes meet yours, and they’re so open it almost knocks the breath out of you.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know now.”

The silence between you tightens again, but this time it’s charged in a completely different way. You shift a little closer, your thigh brushing his under the blankets. His fingers curl tighter around yours. Your voice comes out smaller than you expect.

“Can I… kiss you?”

Mark’s eyes widen just a little, his breath catching. Then he nods, barely more than a breath. “Yeah. Definitely.”

You lean in slowly, your pulse a roar in your ears, every nerve in your body dialed up. You’ve never been good at this. Kissing. Intimacy. It’s not that you haven’t wanted it. You’ve just never been sure how to get there. But Mark’s there, waiting, and when your lips meet his, it’s soft. Gentle. More of a brush than a kiss. You pull back, half-expecting to have fumbled it, but he’s already chasing after you with a smile.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “Come back.”

You do. The second kiss lingers longer. Still soft, but with more intention. Your nose bumps his and your hand accidentally catches his chest in a weird, flat-palmed way that makes you both laugh against each other’s mouths. It’s not perfect. It’s better. It’s you.

He kisses you again, and this time you relax into it, fingers finding his shirt and curling there for something to hold onto. His lips move against yours like he’s not in a rush but doesn’t want to stop either. You part your lips, testing the waters, and when his tongue brushes yours, it sends a thrill down your spine you didn’t expect. You make a small sound, a surprised, involuntary gasp, and Mark pulls back just a little, checking your eyes like he's making sure you’re still with him.

“You okay?” he asks, voice husky, his hand sliding up to cradle the side of your face.

You nod, breathless. “Yeah. Just… new.”

His smile softens into something tender. “That’s okay. We can go slow. I’m not going anywhere.”

You nod again, your hand now sliding under the edge of his shirt, fingers brushing the bare skin of his side. It’s warmer than you expected. He leans in again, kissing you deeper now. You shift closer, until your leg is draped over his, your chest pressed lightly to his, and god, the way it feels to have his body against yours makes your brain completely short-circuit.

You don’t even realize how much time has passed, how many kisses. Everything’s a blur of soft mouths, breathless sounds, hands that explore in halting, reverent paths. He’s not rushing. He’s matching your pace, like he’s reading your mind. Every movement, every graze of his thumb on your cheek or the slow drag of his palm down your side, it’s all careful, respectful, but electric.

Your lips are swollen now, flushed and tender from the growing intensity of every kiss, every breathless gasp between them. You’ve lost track of how long you’ve been like this, tangled up in one another, kissing until the rest of the world faded down to the warmth of Mark’s body and the way he makes you feel like you’re the only thing that matters.

His hand is on your waist, fingertips digging into the soft cotton of your sleep shirt, and yours is fisted in the fabric of his tee, pulling him closer every time his mouth meets yours like you need more of him. The air around you feels thicker, heavier. Charged.

You shift again, instinctively, your thigh pressing more firmly between his legs, and that’s when you feel it. The slow, aching pressure of his hardness through his pajama pants, against your leg. The awareness of it hits both of you at once. You freeze, barely a breath away from his mouth, and he exhales through his nose, shuddering.

“Shit,” he whispers, blinking at you like he wasn’t expecting this either. “That—wasn’t on purpose. I swear.”

You swallow. “I know.”

Neither of you moves for a second. Then your voice, quieter, more raw, “It’s okay. I… don’t want to stop.”

His eyes flick over your face like he’s trying to find the edges of your comfort. “You sure?”

You nod. “I want this. I just—I’m figuring it out as we go.”

Mark kisses you again, slower this time. Deeper. His hand slips beneath your shirt, not groping, just palm-flat and warm against your back. The contact sends a jolt through you. You gasp into his mouth, your leg shifting again, accidentally grinding against him.

He groans. Low, guttural. His hips buck forward, just barely, like he’s trying not to move too much, but can’t help the reaction. You feel it again, how hard he is. How hot this is getting.

Your hand trails down his side, hesitant but curious, and he catches your wrist gently.

“I don’t want to go too far,” he says, voice thick, but controlled. “But if we… stay like this…”

You don’t let him finish. You roll your hips, shy but deliberate, grinding into his thigh where it rests between yours. The friction sparks something sharp and needy in your stomach, and you gasp, clutching at his shirt.

Mark’s breath catches like you’ve hit him with a punch. “Okay,” he murmurs, “okay, yeah, that’s—god, that’s good.”

His hips move again, this time meeting yours, slow and tentative at first. You both moan, quiet, startled. There’s fabric in the way, layers of it, but somehow it only makes it more intense, more charged. You can feel him through the denim, and he can feel every shift of your hips against his leg.

You move again, grinding into him a little harder this time, your breath hitching as the friction hits just right, a soft cry escaping your throat. Mark growls under his breath and grabs your waist, steadying you, guiding you as you move against each other.

“You feel… fuck, you feel amazing,” he says, mouth against your neck now, teeth grazing your skin. You arch into him instinctively, pushing closer, chasing the pressure, the pleasure building between your legs in slow, delicious waves.

Your bodies fall into rhythm. Clothes still on. Nothing exposed. And yet the sensation is almost unbearable, the way your clit grinds against your underwear, the damp heat building there, the way his cock twitches beneath his jeans every time your hips roll together.

You whimper, head falling forward to rest against his shoulder. “Mark…”

He groans your name like it’s a prayer, hands gripping your hips tighter, pulling you against him as he thrusts up to meet you. “Keep going,” he whispers, “I’m so close—I can’t-”

You nod, frantic now, chasing your own high, your body moving on instinct, your thighs tightening around his, your clit catching perfectly against the seam of your underwear with every grind. The pressure is unbearable and perfect and building so fast you can’t breathe.

Your moans are louder now, breathier, and Mark's voice is rough in your ear, panting, muttering half-formed words, “just like that—don’t stop—fuck, you’re—so hot-”

You cry out, shuddering, as it hits you hard and fast, your orgasm crashing through you like a wave you didn’t see coming. Your thighs seize, hips grinding in a desperate, uneven rhythm as you ride it out, shaking against him.

Mark groans, body going tense beneath you, and a second later he jerks up into you with a broken, desperate sound, and then he’s gasping into your neck, cock twitching through his boxers as he comes hard, grinding against you one last time.

Silence falls again, but this time it’s charged in a completely different way. You're both panting, flushed, your bodies still tangled. The world shrinks to the hot, sticky thrum between your thighs and the warmth of his arms around you.

Your skin’s still buzzing, your heart hasn’t slowed, and Mark’s hand hasn’t left your body since he kissed you breathless and made you melt against the sheets. You’re curled on your side, facing him, still flushed and warm all over, your sleep shirt rumpled high around your waist. His fingers are drawing lazy lines along your thigh like he doesn’t want to stop touching you, and honestly, neither do you.

You look at him, your lips parted, still catching your breath. “That… was a lot.”

Mark grins, eyes a little wild, like he’s still not totally back in his body either. “Good a lot?”

You nod, cheeks hot. “Very. Just… I didn’t expect it to feel that good. Like my brain turned off.”

He laughs softly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “That’s kinda the point.”

You exhale, grounding yourself in the weight of him beside you, in the way his hand brushes along your hip like he’s memorizing you by touch. You shift slightly, parting your legs a little under the blanket, letting the warmth and tension start to build again. He notices. His eyes flick down, then back to yours, checking.

“You want more?” he asks, voice low, careful.

You nod slowly, nerves fluttering under your ribs, but not enough to stop you. “Yeah. I… I think I want you to, um…” Your eyes drop, and you swallow. “Go down on me?”

Mark doesn’t blink. Doesn’t hesitate. Just smiles softly like that’s the most natural thing in the world. “I’d love to.”

Your heart stutters, and he shifts immediately, kissing your lips once more before moving down the bed. He pauses when he’s kneeling between your thighs, hands sliding gently up your legs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. His gaze is reverent, warm, focused entirely on you.

“Tell me if anything doesn’t feel good, okay?” he says, looking up at you.

You nod, voice small. “I trust you.”

He smiles at that. “Good.”

Then he lowers his head.

His lips press a kiss just above your knee. Then another, higher, a slow trail up your thigh that has your stomach clenching. His breath is warm, teasing, and when he kisses the soft crease beside your center, you gasp, hips twitching involuntarily. He doesn’t dive in. He waits, fingers smoothing over your skin, easing you into it.

Then finally, finally, his mouth settles between your thighs.

The first touch of his tongue is light, just a slow, warm stripe over your slit that makes your toes curl. Your fingers bunch the sheets, your head tipping back against the pillow as a soft, helpless sound slips out of you. He groans against you at the sound, the vibration of it making you shiver.

Mark licks again, firmer now, tongue dragging up to your clit in one smooth motion. When he flicks it, your whole body reacts—hips lifting, thighs squeezing around his head before you can stop yourself.

“Oh my god—Mark-”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice muffled, lips brushing you as he speaks. “That feel good?”

You let out something between a whimper and a laugh. “Yes. Jesus.”

He chuckles, low and smug and so affectionate, and then gets back to it. His hands hook around your thighs, pulling you open gently, holding you steady as he focuses on your clit now, licking slow circles, sometimes firm, sometimes soft. Every shift of his tongue feels different, like he’s reading every reaction, adjusting just for you.

You don’t know what to do with your hands. One ends up in his hair, fingers tangling instinctively, the other gripping the pillow beside your head. Your breath stutters with every pass of his mouth, every change in pressure.

When he sucks, just lightly, testing, you moan, sharp and sudden, your legs shaking around his shoulders.

He hums in approval, licks harder now, zeroing in on the rhythm that makes you come undone. Your thighs start to tremble, the pleasure curling in your gut, growing tight and hot and right on the edge of too much.

“Mark—Mark, I’m-” you gasp, barely able to form words. “I think I’m gonna—oh my god-”

“Do it,” he breathes against you, voice ragged, “I’ve got you.”

That’s all it takes. You break, coming with a cry you can’t even hold in, your hips jerking, back arching off the mattress. His name slips from your lips in broken pieces as he keeps his mouth on you, gentler now, easing you through it, drinking in every second.

You collapse back, panting, dazed. Your legs fall open, spent. Mark finally pulls away, lips slick, cheeks flushed, grinning like he just stole the sun. He crawls up the bed, brushing a kiss to your cheek, then your lips, letting you taste yourself, your heat still on his mouth.

“You okay?” he asks, thumb brushing your jaw.

You nod, swallowing hard, voice soft. “I think my soul left my body.”

He grins, nuzzling close. “Then I’ll just have to kiss you ‘til it comes back.”

Mark’s sprawled out against the pillows, shirtless, pants still half-on, but loose around his hips now. His chest is rising and falling in quick, shallow bursts. His hair’s a mess, his lips are pink and parted, and he’s looking at you like he’s not sure he’s still conscious.

You reach for the waistband of his jeans, your fingertips brushing against the bare skin of his lower stomach. You glance up at him, cheeks flushed. “Can I…?”

He nods quickly, already breathless. “Yeah. Yeah, totally.”

Your hands work the button open, sliding the zipper down slow. He lifts his hips to help when you tug his pants and boxers down, revealing him fully. You pause for a second, just looking, taking in the way his cock is flushed and hard, resting against his stomach, thick and twitching in time with every breath he pulls.

You’re flushed all over now, nerves buzzing beneath your skin. But you want this. You want him. And it’s not about returning the favor, it’s about the way he looked at you earlier, like you were something he’d dreamed about touching and couldn’t believe was real.

You lean in, your breath brushing over him, and he lets out a strangled sound just from that. You smile, barely, and then press a kiss to his hip bone, one side, then the other. Your hand wraps around the base of him, gentle but sure, and he groans, low and sharp.

You glance up again. “Okay?”

Mark’s eyes are almost black now, his voice wrecked. “Yeah. God, yeah.”

You lower your head, letting your lips ghost over the tip, tasting him, salty, hot, unfamiliar but not unpleasant. He twitches in your hand. You open your mouth and take him in slowly, inch by inch, your lips wrapping around him as you sink lower. His hand clenches the bedsheet beside him, the muscles in his stomach flexing hard.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, voice already strained. “You’re… wow, okay.”

You smile around him, letting your tongue glide under the shaft, dragging back up to the tip with a slow flick. He shudders, his hips barely lifting before he reigns himself back in. You start to move, careful at first, your hand stroking the base while your lips slide up and down over the head, learning the rhythm of his breath, the way he twitches when you go just a little deeper.

He groans again, voice muffled. “You’re gonna kill me. I swear.”

You hum around him, and his whole body jerks, a strangled moan slipping from his throat. You glance up and his eyes are on you, dazed and wide and wild, like he can’t believe this is happening.

“You look-” he chokes out, “fuck, you look so hot like that.”

You keep going, taking him deeper now, inching farther with each pass. Your throat tightens, your jaw working, your hand stroking in tandem. His abs are tight beneath your palm, his thighs trembling just a little where your fingers rest against them.

Mark’s hands twitch like he wants to touch you, maybe tangle in your hair, but he doesn’t, he just watches, eyes locked to yours every time you glance up. You speed up a little, hollowing your cheeks, letting your spit drip over your fist, making it easier to stroke him faster, smoother. You can feel him start to lose control, his breathing faster, his hips shifting in short, needy thrusts.

“I’m close,” he says, voice shaking. “Fuck, baby, I’m so close.”

You take him deeper, until you feel the head hit the back of your throat. Your hand moves faster, twisting around the base, and you moan softly around him. That’s it. That’s what pushes him over.

He comes with a groan that borders on a whimper, his hand shooting out to grip the sheets, hips stuttering. Hot, salty release spills into your mouth, thick and sudden, and you keep going, swallowing as best you can, letting the rest dribble out and down your chin as you ease off him, slow, careful.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, crawling back up beside him. He’s panting, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other still clenched in the sheets like he doesn’t know how to exist in his own body anymore.

When you settle beside him, he turns his head slowly, eyes glazed, lips parted in a dazed grin.

“Okay,” he says. “That was… that was insane.”

You laugh softly, settling your cheek against his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“I think I just died. And I don’t even care.”

You smile, lips brushing his collarbone. “You’re alive.”

“Am I?” He reaches over and pulls you in tighter, still breathing hard. “Pretty sure I flatlined.”

You kiss the side of his neck, warm and soft. “Guess we both need CPR.”

Mark snorts, breathless. “I think you gave me CPR. With your mouth.”

You grin, biting his shoulder. “You’re such a dork.”

“And you,” he says, turning his face toward yours, brushing your hair out of your eyes, “are amazing.”

He kisses you, slow and deep and grateful, tasting himself on your lips without flinching, without even hesitating. Just kissing you like he wants to stay there forever. When you finally pull apart, both of you a little breathless again, he presses his forehead to yours.

“We’re doing that again,” he murmurs.

You grin. “Which part?”

“All of it. Every single part.”

The room feels different now, thick with warmth, the air humming with the weight of what’s been said, what’s been done, what’s about to happen. The sheets are tangled around your waist, your body still trembling slightly, flushed from his touch, from his mouth, from the look in his eyes like you’re the most sacred thing he’s ever held. And you are, right now. You feel it in the way Mark touches you. No rush. No pressure. Just reverence. Just care.

You’re lying beneath him, heart thudding so loud you’re sure he can hear it. His hands are warm against your sides, thumbs brushing over the soft skin just below your ribs. He’s hovering above you, fully naked now, his body lean and strong, toned from fights and flights and all the impossible things he does daily, but still human here. Still yours here.

“You’re sure?” he asks, voice so soft it barely fills the space between you.

You nod, slowly. “I’m sure.”

Mark exhales, eyes fluttering shut for a beat like he needed to hear that, needed to feel it in his bones. When he opens them again, they’re darker, heavier with emotion, something raw and vulnerable behind the desire.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay. I’ll go slow. I promise.”

He leans in and kisses you, not rushed, not hungry, just deep, like he’s saying something he can’t put into words. You kiss him back with the same unspoken understanding, fingers sliding into his hair, pulling him closer. His body settles over yours, the heat of his skin seeping into you, grounding you, thrilling you.

He reaches down between you and lines himself up, his cock heavy and hot against your thigh. You gasp at the feel of it, the size, the pressure, the weight of what it means. He strokes himself once, slowly, before he presses the tip against your entrance, and both of you go quiet.

Mark kisses your jaw, your cheek, your temple, whispering between each press of his lips. “Tell me if it’s too much. I’ll stop. I’ll stop anytime.”

“I want this,” you breathe, your voice shaking but sure. “I want you.”

He pushes forward, just a little, and your breath catches in your throat.

The stretch is immediate, your body fighting the unfamiliar intrusion. It’s not painful, but it’s… intense. Tight. Full. You tense on instinct, your fingers digging into his biceps.

Mark freezes. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, forcing yourself to breathe. “Just… slow. Keep going. Just slow.”

He nods, kissing your forehead. “You’re doing perfect.”

He moves again, gradually, inch by inch, until he’s partway inside you, his hips trembling with restraint. You feel him everywhere, stretching you open, grounding you, filling you in ways that feel impossibly deep. You gasp again, blinking hard, focusing on the heat of his skin under your hands, the sound of his voice murmuring soft encouragement into your ear.

“So tight,” he breathes. “So perfect.”

He goes deeper, his cock sinking into you with slow, deliberate thrusts until he’s fully sheathed, buried inside you. His breath stutters, his eyes fluttering shut, jaw clenched hard to keep from losing control. You can feel every inch of him, feel your body stretching around him, learning how to take him.

You moan softly, hips shifting as you adjust, and when the sting fades into something fuller, warmer, you let out a shaky breath.

“I’m okay,” you whisper, legs curling around his waist. “You can move.”

He starts slow. Rolling his hips in shallow, careful thrusts, keeping his body pressed close to yours, never breaking contact. His hand strokes your side, your thigh, your cheek, anywhere he can reach. Every time you tense, he slows, waiting for your body to trust him again.

And it does. Little by little, the discomfort melts away. You start to move with him, rolling your hips up to meet his, gasping every time he sinks deep and grinds against something that sends sparks up your spine.

“God,” Mark groans, head dropping to your shoulder. “You feel… fuck, you feel amazing.”

You cling to him, overwhelmed by the heat, the closeness, the sound of his voice breaking into gasps every time your hips meet. He picks up a little speed, still slow, still careful, but more confident now. Every thrust fills you completely, the pressure building into something real. Something intimate. Every soft slap of skin, every low moan that spills from his lips, every helpless sound you make beneath him, it all adds to the rhythm, the heat, the connection.

Your fingers drag down his back, nails biting into muscle, and he groans, pushing deeper, harder, still slow but more intense now. He lifts his head, looks down at you with so much awe, so much feeling it’s dizzying.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispers, forehead pressing to yours, sweat glistening on his skin. “So fucking beautiful.”

You moan, your body clenching around him, your thighs shaking. “I think I’m close, Mark—don’t stop-”

“I’m here,” he says, voice thick and ragged. “I’ve got you. Come for me.”

The wave crashes over you without warning, shuddering and hot and endless. Your back arches, your mouth open on a cry as your walls pulse around him, the orgasm tearing through you like a current. Mark groans, burying his face in your neck as he follows you, thrusting once, twice more before he stills, hips pressed tight to yours as he comes hard, shaking in your arms, gasping your name.

Everything is still after. No sound but the ragged breath of two bodies wrecked and clinging.

He doesn’t move for a long moment, just breathes into your neck, his arms wound around you like he’s afraid to let go.

Eventually, he lifts his head, eyes heavy, lips soft.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, tears stinging the corners of your eyes, not from pain—just emotion. “Yeah. That was… good.”

Mark leans down and kisses you, slow, tender, no rush. No hunger. Just love.

The room’s gone soft around the edges, dim light pooled in the corners, sweat cooling on your skin, your muscles loose and twitching from the first time he’d taken you apart. The air’s heavy, damp with your breath and his, the sheets kicked to the bottom of the bed in a pile of tangled cotton and clothes. Everything smells like sex. Like him. Like you.

And you can feel him behind you.

Still hard.

You shift slightly, and his cock presses against your thigh, warm, heavy, twitching, and it makes your breath catch in your throat. You blink slowly, hazy, your body pulsing between your legs like it’s already remembering what it felt like to have him buried inside you.

“You’re still…” You glance down, blushing. “Wow.”

Mark laughs, but it’s quiet, breathless, like he’s just as surprised. “Yeah. Apparently, I’m eighteen again.”

You snort, dragging the back of your hand across your mouth. “I didn’t even know it could do that. Like, that fast.”

He shrugs, shifting beside you. “I mean, you were literally moaning like someone rewrote your brain chemistry with their dick, so…”

“Oh my god—Mark—shut up-”

He grins, eyes glinting. “Next time you’re gonna be that loud, maybe warn me. I wasn’t exactly planning on getting hard all over again five seconds later.”

You bury your face in the pillow, groaning. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s still pending peer review.”

Mark laughs again, but there’s a quiet behind it now, something deeper. He shifts toward you, his hand sliding over your bare hip, slow and warm. “Do you wanna go again?” His voice is soft now, careful. “I mean… only if you’re feeling okay. I know you said you were sore.”

You breathe in slowly, feeling the ache in your thighs, the pleasant throb between your legs. You are sore. Your body’s worn and flushed and used. But underneath that soreness is a craving you didn’t know you could feel, something thick and hot and electric.

You nod. “Yeah. I want to.”

Mark’s breath stutters. He leans in, kisses your shoulder, your neck, his lips trailing heat across your skin. “You wanna stay like this?”

You hesitate. Then you push up slowly, onto your elbows, then your hands and knees, arching your back, your ass lifting high.

You don’t look at him. You can’t. Your face is already on fire.

“I, uh…” Your voice cracks a little. “I want to try it this way.”

There’s a long pause.

Then Mark makes a strangled noise behind you. “Okay. Okay, you can’t just do that and expect me to function.”

You giggle, nervous, shifting your knees a little wider. “I don’t even know if I’m doing it right.”

Mark’s hands settle on your hips, and you feel him slide up behind you, kneeling. His fingers tighten, holding you in place like he’s grounding himself, and then he leans in, pressing a kiss to your lower back.

“You’re doing everything right,” he says, voice rough now. “You look so fucking good like this.”

You shiver, suddenly very aware of how open you are, how vulnerable. But it’s not scary. Not with him. You trust him more than you’ve ever trusted anyone.

He strokes his hand up your spine, then down again, until he’s cupping your ass in both hands, gently kneading the soft flesh. You feel the blunt head of his cock nudge between your folds, and your breath catches.

“Okay?” he asks again, even now, still checking.

You nod, biting your lip. “Yeah. Just… go slow again?”

“Always.”

He presses forward, and you feel the stretch immediately—sharper this time. Deeper. You breathe through it, bracing your arms as your body adjusts, the pressure building until he’s fully inside you, hips flush to your ass.

You whimper, legs shaking. “God, Mark-”

He groans, holding still, trying not to move. “You’re so fucking tight. I can feel everything.”

You breathe, slow and deep, getting used to the new angle, the depth. It’s intense, so much more than before. It feels like he’s deeper inside you, hitting places that make your toes curl.

“You okay?” he asks again.

You nod. “Yeah. It’s just… a lot.”

“Tell me when.”

You shift your hips experimentally, grinding back against him, and that alone makes you both moan.

“There,” you gasp. “There, I’m good. Move.”

He pulls back, just a little, then thrusts back in, slow, deliberate, his hands gripping your waist like he’s afraid he’ll lose you otherwise. The sound is obscene, wet, messy, needy, and your thighs tremble as you rock back into him.

Mark starts to fuck you in earnest, his rhythm picking up, the sound of his skin slapping your ass sharp and filthy. You can barely breathe, your face pressed to the pillow as your body jerks forward with every thrust.

“God—fuck—you feel so good,” he pants behind you. “I can’t believe this is real. You’re—fuck—you’re so good.”

You try to answer, but all that comes out is a moan as he hits a spot inside you that makes your vision go white.

He leans over you, his chest against your back now, his arm wrapping around to reach between your legs. His fingers find your clit, slippery and swollen, and he starts rubbing tight, fast circles in rhythm with his thrusts.

You scream, bucking under him. “Mark—fuck—I’m gonna—oh my god-”

“Do it,” he groans into your neck. “Wanna feel you come around my cock again. Wanna hear how loud I can make you.”

You unravel in seconds, your body locking, your pussy clenching down around him so hard it rips a growl out of his throat. You shake, crying out, eyes squeezed shut, legs useless beneath you.

Mark thrusts through your orgasm, chasing his own, and a moment later he slams in deep one last time, groaning loud as he comes, cock pulsing, his whole body jerking with it.

He collapses on top of you, both of you breathless, ruined.

After a long, quiet minute, he rolls off to the side, pulling you with him, your body limp against his chest.

You don’t speak. You can’t. You just lie there, letting the warmth of him bleed into your skin, his hand stroking your back like you’re something fragile and important.

Finally, Mark exhales a soft laugh. You’re curled against him, your head tucked beneath his chin, his hand smoothing up and down your back like he doesn’t want to stop touching you. And honestly? You don’t want him to either.

Your skin still tingles. Your thighs are sticky, your lips sore from kissing. You feel raw and loved and dizzy.

But deep beneath all that?

There’s still need.

Not playful. Not curious. Heavy.

You swallow, your voice small. “I’m still... kind of wired.”

Mark hums above you, lazy. “Wired?”

“I mean, like…” You shift slightly, pressing your hips against him without thinking. “I thought I’d be spent. But it’s like my brain's fried and my body’s just... still on.”

You glance up at him through messy strands of hair. “You ever get that? Like your muscles should be exhausted, but your whole body’s still buzzing?”

Mark lifts his head and looks at you.

And he’s not smiling this time.

His face shifts, just a little. Like something in him’s been quiet this whole time and now it’s starting to wake up. That soft, sweet boyish glow in his eyes dims, changes. Not gone. Just shadowed. Heated.

“Yeah,” he says, voice lower now. “I get that.”

His fingers slide down your side, finding the dip of your waist, his palm spreading over your hip. He holds you like that for a second. Still.

Then. “You wanna go again.”

It’s not really a question.

But you nod. “I do. I just… I don’t want it gentle this time.”

Mark blinks slowly, like he’s processing that. Then he exhales, breath shaky, and shifts to sit up slightly, his hand still warm on your waist. “You mean like—what? Different position, or like—more intense?”

You hesitate. Then push onto your elbows and roll onto your stomach, deliberately slow. You stretch your arms out and tilt your hips up just enough. Not knees. Not lifted like before.

Flat.

Heavy.

Open.

Your voice comes out low. “More intense.”

There’s a long pause. You feel it, him watching you. Breathing harder.

Then Mark says, quietly. “I don’t think I can be nice if we do it like this.”

You glance back at him. His jaw’s tight. His eyes are dark, locked on where your thighs are already pressing together, slick and aching.

“Then don’t be.”

That breaks him.

Mark shifts behind you slowly, spreading your thighs just a little more with firm hands that feel bigger like this, heavier. He settles on his knees, your hips tipped up with the help of the pillow beneath you, your chest and cheek pressed into the mattress. Your back arches without meaning to, presenting, offering, your entire body opening up for him without hesitation.

You feel him line up, the head of his cock dragging slowly along your entrance, teasing once, twice, more to coat himself in your slick than to test your patience.

“You’re still soaked,” he says, low and ragged.

He presses in with one smooth, solid thrust.

Your mouth falls open. No words, just breath. The stretch hits immediately. He’s thick, the angle is deeper than before, and the way your thighs are pressed together amplifies everything. The heat, the fullness, the pressure on every nerve ending. Your walls clamp down reflexively, overwhelmed, and Mark grits out a curse behind you.

“Jesus Christ—you’re tight.”

You try to nod, but it’s more of a twitch. He’s all the way in, his hips pressed firm to your ass, and for a long second, neither of you moves. You both just exist in the feeling.

Then Mark pulls back.

And slams into you.

The first thrust punches a sound out of your mouth. A sharp cry that bursts out before you can catch it. Your hands fist in the sheets, and your hips jerk forward from the force of it.

He does it again. Harder. Deeper.

His hands lock around your hips, gripping tight, holding you in place as he finds his rhythm. It’s not rushed, but it’s rough. Purposeful. Every thrust lands hard, rocking your body into the mattress, making the headboard rattle gently with the force.

You’re gasping now, helpless. “Oh my god—Mark—fuck-”

“Yeah?” he pants, voice raw. “You like this?”

You nod frantically, unable to speak. It’s too much, in the best way. Your body’s strung out, shaking, the friction relentless. Each thrust drives him so deep inside you it feels like he’s splitting you in half and rebuilding you in his shape.

The sound of it fills the room, skin on skin, slick and fast and wet, your cries rising with every thrust.

He leans forward a little, changing the angle, and suddenly he’s grinding against something inside you that makes your vision spark. You jolt, head lifting from the mattress as your whole body tenses.

“There,” he breathes. “That’s the spot.”

He keeps hitting it, again and again, each time with more force, more intent, his cock stroking over that perfect pressure point like he means to ruin you.

You sob into the sheets. “Mark—Mark—I can’t-”

“Yes, you can,” he growls. “You’re taking it so fucking well.”

One hand slips off your hip, snakes around to your front, fingers sliding over your clit. You’re already so sensitive the first brush makes your hips jerk, but he doesn’t stop. He rubs fast, firm circles, in sync with his thrusts, and the combination nearly knocks you out of your body.

The burn is everywhere. Your legs are trembling. Your muscles are tight and twitching, your breath broken into whimpers. You don’t know if you’re saying his name or just thinking it, chanting it, praying with it, begging.

“Please—please—I’m gonna-”

“Come,” he murmurs lowly, barely holding it together behind you. “I want it. I wanna feel it.”

You come like lightning. There’s no slow build, just a sudden, electric collapse. Your pussy clenches hard, convulsing around him, your voice breaking into a sharp cry as your whole body locks up.

Mark groans, deep and strained, his hips faltering. He fucks you through it, his cock dragging through the wet, pulsing heat of your orgasm, and then he slams in once more and freezes.

“F-fuck—” he gasps, head dropping to your back. “I’m—fuck—”

He shudders hard, cock twitching as he spills into you, his whole body jerking with it. One hand clenches around your waist like he’s trying to ground himself while the other braces against the bed beside your head. You feel the tension ripple through him, feel him lose it inside you.

And then it’s over. But the heat doesn’t fade right away. It lingers, wrapped around your body like a second skin, sinking deep into your bones.

Mark stays inside you for a moment longer, chest heaving, his breath hot against your back. Then, carefully, slowly, he eases out, one hand on your lower back as he moves, gentle again now, like the moment’s intensity is still ringing in his hands.

He pulls you into him when he finally lays down again, your back to his chest, arms tight around you like he’s trying to hold the moment in place.

You’re not sure how long you lie there, your bodies tangled, your skin still tacky with sweat, but the quiet between you doesn’t need filling. It’s not silence, it’s peace. The kind that only comes after something real. Something that breaks you open and puts you back together in the same breath.

You’re not sure how long it’s been. Minutes? An hour?

Time’s gone soft around the edges, all stretched out and blurry. Your skin is sticky, flushed. Every part of you feels sore in that half-numb way that says we went too far and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Your thighs ache. Your lips are swollen. Your muscles don’t want to move.

Mark is breathing slowly behind you. His chest rises against your back in that heavy rhythm you only get when your body’s winding down after something primal, after all the tension’s burned off and all that’s left is heat and heartbeat and the way you fit together.

You shift just slightly, trying to get comfortable, and immediately wince.

“Ow,” you whisper, wry and quiet.

Mark stirs behind you. He’s half-asleep, but not gone. His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you closer. “Mm?”

“I think my spine left the building,” you murmur, face still buried in the pillow. “My thighs are mad at me. My everything hurts.”

Mark chuckles. It’s low and sleepy, his breath warm on your shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

You snort. “I didn’t say I regretted it.”

He hums and nuzzles closer, pressing a soft, barely-there kiss between your shoulder blades. “Good. ‘Cause I definitely blacked out for a few minutes in the middle there.”

You turn your head just enough to look back at him. His hair is a mess, his face flushed and still dazed, eyes half-lidded. He looks soft like this. Disarmed. Like he’s not trying to be anything but yours.

“Can’t feel my legs,” you murmur.

“Same,” he says, voice muffled now, mouth resting against your bare skin. 

You laugh quietly. “Romantic.”

“The most romantic.” He kisses your neck this time. “Can’t believe this started with you explaining something about thermodynamic collapse at dinner.”

You groan into the pillow. “Don’t remind me.”

“No, it was hot,” he mumbles. “You had charts.”

“You’re never letting this go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

You let silence stretch out for a little while. Not because there’s nothing left to say, but because it’s nice, being quiet with him. Not needing to fill space. His thumb strokes absent circles into your side. The fan hums softly from the corner of the room.

“Hey,” you whisper eventually.

Mark makes a soft noise of acknowledgment, his grip on you not loosening an inch.

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this before,” you say, the words barely audible. “Not just… sex. But this. Being held like this.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he shifts just enough to hook his leg over yours, tangling you together even more.

“Me neither,” he says.

You smile. Close your eyes. Press your fingers over his hand, holding it there.

Mark kisses your shoulder again. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

“I’m sweaty and ruined and I probably have sheet lines all over my face.”

“Exactly.”

You huff out a laugh and feel it ease something in your chest. That pressure that’s always there, especially when you get too in your head, too tangled in what things mean. It’s gone now. There’s no future to plan for, no awkwardness to decode. Just warmth. Skin. Comfort.

Eventually, Mark’s breathing starts to even out behind you again. Slower. Deeper. You think he’s about to fall asleep, until his hand squeezes your hip, one last time.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“Mm?”

“I’m still hard.”

You choke on a laugh. “Mark-”

“I’m just saying.” His voice is thick with sleep. 

“You’re delusional.”

“I’m in love.”

You freeze. He doesn’t seem to notice he said it, too sleepy. He’s already burying his face against your shoulder again, breathing the evening out. But you hear it. You feel it. And as your hand drifts back to find his under the blankets, your fingers twining between his, you realize the words don’t scare you. They feel right.

You whisper into the quiet, “Me too.”

And let yourself fall asleep tangled in him, no space between you. Just breath. Just warmth. Just him. You wake up before the alarm. Not because of the sun, though it’s already rising, a subdued gold streaming through the curtain edge. Not because of the nerves, though they're creeping up your neck like static.

Mark shifts next to you, so you awaken.

Not a lot. Just the tiniest finger twitch on your bare waist, the gentle, drowsy exhalation against the back of your shoulder as he moves and falls back into the sheet tangle. The warmth strikes you all at once. The intimacy. The stillness. And the fact that it’s today. You blink carefully, allowing your eyes adapt, but you don’t move.

Still snuggled behind you, Mark's chest pushed to your back and one arm draped over your stomach. Your legs are knotted with his. The room smells like hotel soap and shared flesh, and your body hurts in all the ways that make last night seem heavy and real and right.

You close your eyes again, just for a second. It’s not the nerves that drag you out of bed. It’s the weight of time.

You move carefully, sliding out from beneath his arm without disturbing him. You discover your clothes, your polished pants, your clean shirt, the jacket you picked out in a swirl of anxious energy the week before. You gather your bags, your badge, your quivering hands, and go silently into the restroom.

The water is too hot, yet you don’t turn it down. You lean into the tile, forehead on the wall, and let the steam fill your lungs. You’re not crying. You’re not breaking. But you are unraveling a little, and here is the only location that seems secure enough to do it without falling apart totally. This is it. Today. Your Oscorp presentation.

You know what to say. You’ve rehearsed it. Memorized it. You’ve revised your slides six times. You’ve spoken your introduction in the shower, in the mirror, in your sleep. But knowing what to say and feeling you’re ready to speak it in front of a room full of business executives are two very different things.

You dry off gently, wrap your towel firmly about you, and gaze at your reflection in the mirror. You don’t feel brilliant. You don’t feel like someone who deserves a seat in the room. But you button the shirt nevertheless. One at a time.

When you step out, your hair still damp around your shoulders, Mark’s awake. He’s sitting up in bed, hair ruffled, wearing nothing but sleep-wrinkled boxers and a bewildered face. He blinks when he sees you. Then grins. Soft. Proud. Sleep-warm and boyish.

“Morning.”

You exhale. “Hi.”

He stretches, arms extending over his head, and lets out a deep breath. “You’re already dressed?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“You okay?”

You nod.

He glances at you for a second longer. “You sure?”

“No.”

Mark scoots to the edge of the bed and puts his elbows on his knees. “C’mere.”

You hesitate. Then go. You sit alongside him, your bare knee caressing his thigh, and he threads his fingers with yours without a word.

“You don’t have to be okay right this second,” he offers gently.

“I want to be.”

He shrugs. “You will be. Once you’re in that room.”

You gaze at the floor.

“I can’t tell if I’m more scared of failing or of doing well and not knowing what comes after.”

Mark hums. “That’s fair.”

“You’re not gonna try to talk me down?”

“Nope.”

You gaze up at him.

And his look is peaceful. Grounded. Certain.

“I’m just gonna remind you you’re not alone,” he says. “You don’t have to carry this by yourself.”

You push your forehead to his. Just for a second. Then breathe out. And let him hold your hand for as long as it needs.

The ride down on the elevator is calm. You’re dressed in your presenting best. Your badge catches the light every time the elevator shifts. Mark’s dressed casually but neat, dark jacket, tidy pants, your favorite of his shirts beneath.

His hand touches yours in the confined space. You take it. Without speaking. Without thinking. You just take it.

The convention lobby is full. There are interns everywhere, stiff suits, coffee cups clasped like lifelines, frantic eyes darting from registration tables to room schedules to glossy name tags of higher-ups strolling by like gods. Your badge says PRESENTER. Silver. Heavy.

Mark doesn't say anything. Because he’s just a visitor. But he walks with you like he’s more than that. Like he always has. You find the check-in table, confirm your time, and receive your placement: Panel Room B, second slot. Thirty minutes. You nod. You try not to reveal how your pulse is beating in your ears.

The woman behind the counter grins. “There’s a prep room across the hall. Just presenters and organizers allowed.”

You gaze back toward Mark. Her eyes follow.

“Guests can wait outside the panel room,” she offers softly. “We’ll start seating soon.”

Mark glances at you. “You want me to stay close?”

You nod. “Front row.”

He grins. “Wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

The prep room is quieter but not calmer.

There’s a row of seats, a pitcher of water, a countdown clock on the wall. You sit. You grasp your iPad with white knuckles. You practice your opener in your thoughts again. And again. And again. Your chest feels tight. But suddenly the door opens slightly, and a worker comes in.

“First presenter’s almost done. You're next.”

You stand. Your legs feel like someone else's. And then you’re in the hallway. Then you’re standing behind a curtain, waiting for your name. You hear muted applause.

A voice over the mic. “Next up, a promising development in adaptive nano-tech applications-”

And your name. Clear. Loud. Sharp. You step into the spotlight. You don’t trip. You don’t freeze. You talk. Your voice shakes just for the first few syllables. But then you lock eyes with someone in the front row.

Black hair. Blue eyes.  Strong jaw. Leaning forward in his seat. Watching you like nothing else mattered. Mark. His expression is steady. Soft. He grins when you make it through your intro.

He mouths the word “yes” when your first graph loads without glitching.

He nods along as you hit your stride. And when you pause for audience questions, he’s the only person in the room you trust to look at. Because he’s still there. Still holding you together. Without touching a thing.

The applause still resonates in your ears even as the doors close behind you. It’s not thundering. It’s not cinematic. But it’s enough. Enough so you don’t feel like you failed. Enough that your lungs finally feel like they can fill again.

You stroll out of the panel room and into the corridor, where the carpet seems too soft under your shoes and the lights buzz somewhat louder than before. The high is wearing off, fast, and the weight of what you just accomplished is crashing over you in waves.

You don’t even know you’re trembling until you reach the corner near the prep area and touch your palm on the wall to stabilize yourself. Your breath is short. Your mouth is dry. Your heart is still hammering. But you did it. You did it. You look down at your badge, still fastened to your jacket, still sparkling with that strong silver PRESENTER print, and let yourself feel it for just a second. You deserved that.

“Hey.”

You turn. He’s already there. Mark. Leaning nonchalantly against the wall like he didn’t just witness you rise up and own a stage you thought you’d fall on. Like he hasn’t been holding his breath the entire time you talked. But his smile tells everything. You exhale like you forgot how.

“I didn’t screw up,” you reply, almost incredulous.

He pushes off the wall, approaching toward you with the deliberate, controlled stride of someone who’s trying not to run.

“You didn’t just not screw up,” he says. “You crushed it.”

You gaze at him, eyes wide. “I think I blacked out halfway through.”

“You didn’t miss a beat.”

“I—I tripped over one of the bullet points in slide six.”

“No one noticed.”

“I was shaking.”

“I noticed that.”

Your voice catches. “Was it bad?”

Mark stops in front of you. And shakes his head.

“It was honest,” he replies gently. “It made everyone pay attention. Made them believe you.”

You blink fast.

“I feel like I’m going to cry.”

“You should.”

He reaches up, moving your hair back from your face, fingertips sliding over the contour of your cheek.

“You earned this,” he murmurs. “Every second of it.”

You lean toward him before your knees can make any wrong judgments on their own. He captures your lips like he was waiting for it. Holds you. Not tightly. Not dramatically. Just long enough to inform your heart it’s good to slow down now. Just long enough to make it real. You don’t know how long you stay like that.

Eventually, a few more presenters stream by. A pair nod in your direction. One delivers a short, “Nice job in there,” before going down the corridor. You’re not sure if they mean it. But you nod nevertheless. You let go of Mark just enough to breathe again.

“Is it weird that I don’t remember most of it?” you mumble.

He grins. “You will. Once the adrenaline wears off.”

You look down at your hands. They’ve stopped shaking. For now.

“I was scared.”

“I know.”

“I thought I’d fall apart.”

“You didn’t.”

You nod, blinking hard again.

“Did you see who was in the front row?”

Mark nods. “Yeah. Dr. Li. And the guy from R&D with the weird eyebrows.”

“I think he was judging me.”

“I think he was crying.”

You laugh. A complete one this time. Unfiltered. It feels natural. Like breathing. You sit on one of the seats in the corridor with Mark, sipping the water he took off a catering tray while no one was watching. He offers you one of those lemon sugar cookies you usually claim not to enjoy, and you take it without objection. You lean against him, head against his shoulder. And just... exist. For a while.

Until a shadow crosses your range of view.

And a voice replies, “Told you she’d kill it.”

You glance up. Harry. Wearing a jacket you surely haven’t seen before, and smiling that little, familiar smile that never quite gives away what he’s thinking.

“You were in there?” you ask, shocked.

“Of course I was,” he admits. “Front row, four seats behind your boyfriend.”

Mark stares at him but doesn’t say anything.

You shift upright. “What’d you think?”

Harry shrugs. “Could’ve used more lasers.”

You laugh. “Be serious.”

“I am. But no—seriously? You were solid. Professional. Sharp.” He pauses. “You didn’t flinch when they asked about the lab failure data. That was impressive.”

You try not to shine too much. But it’s hard. Especially when the people who’ve known you the longest are the ones observing you the closest. Harry reaches out a hand. You shake it.

He leans in. “Also, Dr. Li was scribbling notes the entire time. That’s typically a positive sign.”

Your stomach flips again. But in a nice way.

He winks. “Catch up later?”

You nod. Harry slips back into the crowd. And you’re left with Mark again, looking down at your now-empty water cup.

“You okay?” he says again, softly.

“Yeah.”

And then, after a pause. “I think I really did it.”

Mark grins. “You did.”

You gaze forward to the far wall of the corridor, where the next group of presenters is being called in.

“Does it feel weird?” you ask.

“What?”

“Seeing me like this. Not as... me. But like this me.”

Mark’s brow furrows. “You’re always this you.”

You scoff. “You know what I mean.”

He shrugs. “I mean, yeah. It’s weird.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“But it’s also amazing,” he says. “Watching you take up space like that? Watching you be seen? I don’t think I’ve ever felt prouder.”

Your chest pulls tight. Mark lays his head on yours.

“You belong in that room.”

You nod slowly.

“I’m starting to think maybe... maybe I do.”

You’re still clutching the empty water bottle when you hear your name. The hallway backstage is quiet now, humming with leftover tension and the distant echo of footsteps, Oscorp volunteers, panel coordinators, applause still bleeding faintly through the walls. You just stepped out of the room where you presented, out of the lights, out of the pressure. Mark’s waiting farther down the hall. 

“Miss,” a voice says, calm and quiet.

You turn. And there he is. Dr. Otto Octavius. You freeze. The only thing louder than the blood pounding in your ears is the realization that he’s here. You didn’t see him at the panel. Didn’t know he was attending. And yet, somehow, it makes sense. He doesn’t sit in crowds. He observes from the shadows.

He’s taller than you expected. Not imposing, exactly, but deliberate. Measured. Like everything about him was engineered for efficiency. His glasses catch the hallway light. His posture is impeccable. His look is unreadable.

“You presented clearly,” he remarks without preface. “You didn’t falter, even when pressed on your control variable gaps.”

You nod, trying not to noticeably brace. “Thank you, Dr. Octavius. I didn’t know-”

“I wasn’t announced,” he adds, cutting you off with the ease of someone who never wastes words. “I prefer to observe when the subject doesn’t know they’re being watched.”

Subject. Your spine gets rigid.

“Walk with me.”

You gaze down the corridor, toward where Mark had gone. But you follow. He walks slowly. Not because he has to, but because he expects you to keep pace.

“I run a program,” he adds after a pause. “A very specific one. Experimental, sponsored privately, shrouded by enough nondisclosure to black out half a city block.”

You look over at him. “What kind of program?”

He doesn’t look at you.

“Cross-species neural adaptation,” he explains. “Specifically… arachnid-based.”

The word clicks against your ribcage.

“Spiders?” you ask, since you have to. He eventually turns his head.

“Yes.”

He stops walking. You stop too.

���The Midtown Spider Genetics Lab houses Oscorp’s most advanced neuroadaptive research,” he explains. “We’ve been isolating and enhancing spider genomes to test the limits of cognitive transference. Behavior mapping. Memory rewriting. Selective mutagenesis. And more.”

You don’t talk. You can’t. His eyes are fixated on you now.

“What we’re doing isn’t theoretical,” he continues. “It’s real. It’s volatile. It demands exactness. Focus. A steady hand and a sharper mind. That’s why I’ve only ever asked very few interns to shadow the project.”

You gaze at him.

“And you want me to be one?” you ask.

“No,” he says. “I want you to be the first of a new branch. The others were observers. I want you in the lab itself.”

You swallow. He sees it. Doesn’t flinch.

“You’ll finish out your academic year,” he says. “The program begins next fall. One semester. Midtown lab. Closed-access wing. Three days per week.”

You hesitate. The corridor is so silent you can hear your heartbeat. Octavius steps closer. Not looming. But close enough to make you feel the gravity.

“You didn’t flinch today,” he says. “Not when they pressed you. Not when you tripped. You held your ground.”

You nod slowly. Once.

“I’m in.”

His smile is a flash. Not approval. Something sharper.

“Good,” he says.

He hands you a folder. Simple. Sealed. Your name on the front.

“Review it. Skim it. Report to the Midtown Genetics Lab next September.”

You take it.

And before you can ask anything else, he’s gone, walking back the way you came, like he was never there at all. You stand in the lonely corridor, holding a folder that suddenly weighs more than the building around you. In your chest, something shifts. Not fear. Not yet. Something smaller. Sharper. The initial thread of something that will tug until there’s nothing left but truth. 

And spiders.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

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[ghoularaki]

baby's breath | 24

↠  summary: Merely by coincidence, Erwin, your father's former friend had crossed paths with you again after nearly a decade. He offered solace once finding out you were struggling with not just school, but your home life as well. His home he shared with another one of your father's friends, Levi, became a sanctuary. Though, the more you came over for study sessions, the more they wiggled themselves into your private life. And like baby's breath, they weeded themselves in so deep you couldn't uproot them.

↠ word count: 1,027

↠ pairing: levi ackerman x reader x erwin smith

↠ genre/warnings: angst, smut, modern au, DARK CONTENT, yandere, daddy kink, forced infantilism, pet play, age gap, emotional manipulation, delulu erwin about you, NSFW (bottom/dom! levi x top/sub! erwin, anal sex, facials)

Drooling groans permeated throughout the bedroom. Laid on his back, his golden hair sprinkled against the pillow with it fanned against his forehead, it was free of any gel. Erwin’s face was pinched in pleasure as he bucked his hips upward. He tilted his chin back to give Levi more room.

His nimble, pale hands were wrapped tight around the larger man’s throat. Purple veins bulged as he dug deep into the sides of Erwin’s neck, cutting blood flow to his brain. His face was pulled back into a sneer, but meaner than usual. As he dropped his hips down on Erwin’s cock, he fucked himself hard causing Erwin to cry out.

“You’re such a sick freak, you know that?” He barked from above.

Erwin moaned out, gyrating his hips to reach deeper inside. Levi pushed Erwin down, he controlled the pace, not him.

“What? You fucked that stupid to not even deny it? That you’re an old pervert that wants a girl he knew as a kid?”

Erwin’s eyes snapped open at that and tried to move, “Levi, I-”

Levi shifted his hold to press his palm into his Adam’s apple, “Stay the fuck down or I’m fucking you instead.”

He fell back against the pillows with a blush. He wouldn’t mind Levi sinking deep inside him, but he didn’t want to leave Levi’s heat just yet. It was hot and gripped tight around his cock. He wondered if you would be this warm, gripping him. God, he couldn’t wait until he got inside you. Just thinking about how wet you would be had him moaning.

After his last pet, he had been devastated. The only reason he got out of bed was because of Levi. He had given him the comfort he needed even by uncharacteristic means. Him and Levi rarely had sex. They were both doms so they weren’t really compatible without a sub between them. Though, after he would lose a pet, Levi would give him the distraction he needed. Levi offered him cruel solace and he accepted it as some sort of punishment. It worked out. He let Levi take the reigns, fuck him so good until it was no longer on his mind, or he found his latest obsession.

With you, he knew this was it. He had to have you, but he just had to wait for the right moment.

You were just so cute, like a little doll. He needed to have you. You were constantly running circles in his brain. As Levi bounced on his throbbing cock, he thought about you. Him grabbing you by the fat on your hips and forcing you take all he could give. At first, he would be gentle, he swears, but once he broken you in he could be as strict as he wanted. He could leave fingerprints muscle deep.

Erwin grunted as he shifted his hips. Levi moaned out as Erwin hit his prostate. Clenching further onto Erwin, he quickened his pace. Gripping the bed sheets, Erwin groaned as he came deep in Levi so lost in his fantasy.

Growling, Levi pulled off Erwin. He whined, leaving Levi’s ass sooner than he wanted. Levi shuffled upwards until he sat on Erwin’s chest. Grabbing his wrists, he had them rest on the bed parallel to Erwin’s shoulders. Using his knees, he pinned Erwin down with ease. The cum in his ass drooled down onto Erwin’s sternum.

His cock still an angry red, he wrapped his hand around the shaft. Glowering down at Erwin, he fisted his own dick using his pre as lube. With a few squelching pumps, he came right on Erwin’s face. The large man flinch back as it landed on his lips and almost in his eyes. Both of their chests heaved as they came down from their highs.

“What was that for?”

“You came in me. It’s disgusting.”

Erwin nodded, “Sorry about that.”

Levi clicked his tongue and got off Erwin. He walked to the bathroom to clean up, “Thinking about her?”

Staring dreamily up at the ceiling, Erwin sighed out, “Yeah.”

The room was silent as Levi cleaned himself up. Groaning, Erwin forced himself up and sat at the foot of the bed. Levi came back out with a warm, damp washcloth. He handed it to Erwin.

“Thank you,” He instantly started to wipe Levi’s cum off his face.

Levi continued to stand over him and crossed his arms, “If this one breaks, no more pets, Erwin.”

Erwin paused. He sat still for a moment and then went back to clean off his temple. “She will be different.”

Levi’s hand snapped out as he grabbed Erwin’s face. “I mean it, Erwin. I can’t do this anymore, I’m tired. We are both getting old and I don’t want to bury anymore bodies.”

Even with his grip, Erwin’s cold eyes burned hot into Levi’s. “So you are just done with this? Everything that we built?”

“Everything I built. This operation had been going on a lot longer than before I met you. I said nothing about that, I just don’t want to bring my work to my house. It’s stupid and will get us caught. Think, Erwin.” Levi let go of his face and tapped against his forehead.

“Your house?”

“My house,” Levi barked, “Remember who lets you live here, shitty eyebrows.”

They both regarded each other. Erwin knew his place very well. They didn’t trust each other, at least, not fully. Levi had a lot more power than Erwin, but Erwin had more leverage. They both had back up plans if either betrayed one another. But despite that, both knew they couldn’t live without the other. Levi invited Erwin into his home because he didn’t trust him, he wanted to keep tabs on him, but it coiled into something worse. A sick co-dependence. Erwin wanted Levi as much Levi needed him. Two awful, lonely men seeking something human. Companionship.

And now they were shackled together. The chains so twisted it’s hard to see exactly who wears the leash and who pulls.

[sannin-three]

I know it's not a pleasant thought, but if you view/headcanon Hiruzen and Orochimaru's relationship as having involved sexual grooming and abuse, it adds/changes so much context between them.

Thoughts below the cut. Also I want to be very clear that this is NOT a ship post. I can't control what people ship, but I'll ask that it please not be brought up here.

The scene of them alone together in the graveyard. I know it's supposed to be a nice moment but it makes me wonder how often the two were left alone together. Orochimaru is also quick to accept Hiruzen's explanation about his parents still being alive somewhere, showing that Hiruzen has a strong influence on them. This isn't unusual for mentor and apprentice dynamics, but given some of Hiruzen's questionable behavior (which I detailed in this post) it makes the whole situation feel less acceptable.

The way Orochimaru gradually pulled away from everyone around them as they grew older. And the fact they shifted in personality from being standoffish and quiet as a child to being a puppet master who uses an almost seductive attitude to manipulate people (SA victims can sometimes develop hypersexuality as a result of their abuse).

The bitterness at being passed over for the Hokage role despite being regarded as Hiruzen's favorite for so long is already kind of understandable, but this would make it a true slap to the face. Years of being used only to be discarded. Which would also make a depressing parallel to Orochimaru's line to Anko where he talks about throwing her away (though I personally don't think Orochimaru went this far with her, and instead was just referring to the curse mark).

Going to work for Danzo could have possibly been a way to get back at Hiruzen for the previous move. Gets dropped by the old man and goes to work with the guy's ex. Unfortunately I know I'm not the only one who assumes Danzo also manipulated and used Orochimaru to some degree. This again makes sense though it's not uncommon for people who were abused before to end up in abusive dynamics again because that's what they're familiar with.

The wardrobe change from silk kimonos and otherwise flattering clothes to the potato sack outfit that hides the shape of their body and almost every inch of their skin. SA victims will sometimes seek to make themselves less visually appealing in the hopes they'll be left alone.

(speaking of, in the Boruto era their clothing is more in line with how they used to dress and while it's still not very revealing, they have a normal collar as opposed to a turtleneck. To me this is a visual indicator of healing.)

Orochimaru's fixation on Sasuke also takes on a different light in this case. We know he wants to take over Sasuke's body to preserve their life, but this would also add more reasoning behind him talking about Sasuke's "beauty". They remember being young and valued for their looks/body, only to be dropped as an adult. Even if they hate Hiruzen now, a damaged part of them still wants to be young and desired once more.

Orochimaru having the chance to finally kill Hiruzen but still shedding a tear after everything that's happened because the child in them remembers how much this man's "love" once meant to them.

The delighted laugh she gives after revealing the body shifting jutsu and Hiruzen calls her inhuman. She almost seems proud of herself for her ability to horrify him, to finally be the one in control.

With all of this in mind, imagine the sheer horror of Hiruzen trying to seal their souls away together for the rest of eternity. For better or worse, Orochimaru broke away from his hold years ago only to be threatened with Hiruzen tying them down again, once and for all.

This also makes his last moments particularly creepy; viewing Orochimaru as a child who's pleasantly smiling at him rather than as the broken adult that has grown in their place. And saying how sad he is that he couldn't take Orochimaru with him... Just completely changes the vibe.

Sasuke himself states that he knows Orochimaru's given reasons for attacking Konoha were a lie. We aren't told what the true reason is though. This would be a potent reason though to take down the institution that allowed Orochimaru (and so many others) to be used like a pawn or a toy. If this were the true reason then it also would make sense why Orochimaru wouldn't want to discuss it openly.

So yeah, while I definitely can't say that this was intentional subtext on the creator's part, I think when brought together it all makes a disturbing sort of sense. The ninja world in general is extremely bad about pushing kids into an adult role far too early in so many ways, and sadly I can't help but assume this would be one of them.

[theknucklehead]

Jim Carrey’s Robotnik is definitely a really interesting character study:

He was an orphan without any family, was bullied at school which caused him to fight back, and spent his years studying and learning until he could build the perfect machines to do what man can’t.

He developed a hate for humanity and thus favors machines because they are more efficient and take orders without push-back; the only person he trusts is Agent Stone, but even then he treats him like he’s nothing to him even though he helps the doctor without question.

Eventually he is defeated by Sonic and sent to the mushroom planet where he is with no one but a rock that looks like Stone. This was a really fitting scenario because it parallels Sonic’s story where he started out alone, but gained friends and a family.

Robotnik would eventually then escape the mushroom planet with the help of Knuckles, and in tern ends up using him just to get his hands on the Master Emerald.

After his betrayal, Knuckles joins Sonic and they work together to defeat Robotnik, showing the power of friendship over Robotnik’s constant need to not make friends and only use people (even Stone who still helps him despite everything that has happened).

In a deleted scene from the 3rd movie, it showed that after the defeat of the Death Egg Robot, he found Robobnik, rescued him and nursed him back to health which again continued to show how much Stone cared for the doctor, of course Robotnik continues to treat him poorly.

After that Ivo meets his grandfather Gerald Robotnik and finally gets a chance to have an actual family for once which doesn’t make him less evil but shows what he was missing.

Stone realizes there was more to Gerald and Shadow’s plan and tried to warn Ivo, but he continues to push Stone away like he always does. Of course Ivo does find out what Gerald was planning which was to destroy Earth along with themselves, Ivo tried to convince him not to and even made a point about how he has a family now, but Gerald disregarded him even telling him he will never be like what Maria was to him.

Ivo then went out of his way to sacrifice himself in order to stop the eclipse canon from destroying Earth with it’s laser and self destruction, and as he’s doing so sends out a message to Stone apologizing for always treating him poorly showing that in those last few moments Ivo finally realized the purpose of friendship and companionship, something he wanted from his grandfather but didn’t get.

I gotta hand it to Fowler, he really cooked with Robotnik’s character in these movies.

[carnationnrecollection]

the thing I hate so much about those "mafumom and kanade are parallels" analyses when they're only similar if you overly demonize kanade and exaggerate her flaws to the highest degree. their shitty argument is that they're parallels because they're both doing what they think is best for mafuyu or whatever but people forget that the lesson kanade learns in kana1 is that she needs to start thinking about mafuyu first before herself so she can save her, when she realizes what she's doing is wrong she changes her ways which is something her mom never did. kanade is making a song because she doesn't want mafuyu to off herself while her mom is the very reason why mafuyu wanted to off herself and when kanade is creating a song it actually does make mafuyu happy. why? because her songs are being made with mafuyu specifically in mind she's thinking her feelings and what she wants. in kana1 her songs aren't resonating with mafuyu because she wasn't thinking about her which is personality flaw and she grows and we know she learns from it because that growth is why her song made mafuyu smile in the end

she acknowledges what she was doing was wrong which she learns through this journey, meanwhile mafumom is directly told that she's been hurting mafuyu and still insists that she's right. how in gods name do people find these characters similar. the reason as to why kanade was able to make mafuyu happy is that she knows who she really is, she knows what her true wants and desires are because she's spoken to her and listened to her which is another thing her mom never did. I don't get how people see kana3 and their takeaway is "kanade is toxic because she was speaking over mafuyu she's just like her abuser" when all she said is that mafuyu doesn't wanna be what her mom says and that she wants to make music w niigo none of which is incorrect we see mafuyu say this exact same thing in that exact same event. kanade is not "speaking over" her she's simply acting a messenger because she just wants to protect mafuyu they literally shove this down your throat. and in were once again reminded that kanade has grown and changed as a person who has learned to think about mafuyu first, and yet just because she has a saviour complex for some reason they think everything she does is fueled by said savior complex but it not because if it was she would not have been able to make mafuyu and the rest of niigo happy and yet she did. there are so many scenes where mafuyu talks about the positive impact kanade has had on her life and somehow people still she's a parallel to her abuser for some reason

I genuinely have no idea how people can watch scenes and still think kanade is some evil wolf in sheep's clothing when she's simply just trying her best to make her friend happy it's really not as deep as you're making it out to be

[yasuumiu]

𝑶𝑵𝑪𝑬, his heart whole; ᘓ ݂ ໋ . 🍎

SYNOPSIS. his entire life, he’s never looked away from you. how do you not see this; how can you not know? what must he do to make you see?

WORD COUNT. 3.2k | WARNINGS. cunnilingus, use of pet names, angst.

𓏲  .⋆ﾟ. ͘ ࣭⠀⸰ absolutely devastated by this pixelated man, and cannot form any coherent thoughts except this. enjoy 🤍

This is what it will be like from now on, he thinks. Me here, and her over there, far away from me, a place I can never reach. Two lines parallel to each other, where before was one.

Fine by him. If he gets to look over you, after you, the separation is bearable. Distinguishable, like an arm losing feeling over time when all its life it’s known otherwise, like his arm—the hand relaxes the unconscious fist, its fingers flexing once, his jaw clenching at the numbness of the movement; he clearly remembers, not too long ago—he wants to remember, he wants—but bearable.

Your necklace scrapes against his chest, the constant reminder, the gift that haunts, the promise he can never break. And still, you—you, you, you—beyond the glass, laughing away with these so-called friends you haven’t seen in a while, not a care in the world about what time it is, about the unanswered calls on your phone, about Caleb—

(He does not let this thought fester like all the others, he will keep this to himself, he will do this for you.) (One of them is a man, don’t move, stay, she’ll get mad, she’ll demand fucking space again—how do you know him, where did you meet, who is he, what does he want—well, what every man wants, what everyone will want if he’s not there to keep you safe—how can you be so naive, so blind—and you dare order him away?)

You’re all grown up now, and so sure of everything, aren’t you, pip-squeak?

He’s sick to his stomach. Even after all these years, the countless sleepless nights tossing and turning, insomnia beating on his skull like a well versed drum, the relentless self-training; teaching himself how to physically turn away from you, all the appropriate responses, but forbidden to cross the Invisible Line, the line that was kept in place for your sake, your selfish convenience; how to keep himself stock-still, to pretend to be normal for you, to not reply instinctually to what he feels for you, how he feels—it all threatens to obliterate him as soon as he loses even an ounce of control.

Shove it down. Shove.It.Down. You’re used to it. You cannot fail now. You cannot fail.

Caleb straightens, his resolve absolute, his purpose unshaken. It’s pitiful, he’s well aware, but it’s all he has left. You’re all he has left. The body holding together knows.

He scorched the earth to find all your missing pieces, slowly reassembling how he knew you before, without thinking you might’ve changed in the time between then and after. And it doesn’t matter. He never once looks away from you. He does it all very, very diligently. And if something is wrong, if he did do something wrong—will you please consider forgiving him? You see, he’s tired. He’s been doing this for a really long time. Over and over with no end in sight.

I’m Caleb. I’ll always be by your side.

Never faltering.

It’s okay if you’ve forgotten. I’ll remind you. I’m Caleb. I’ll always be by your side.

You won’t be alone anymore. I’ll always be by your side.

It’s okay if you’ve forgotten . . . It’s okay.

I’m Caleb.

I forget things too. Everything, sometimes.

You’re the only thing that brings him back. The anchor that pulls him in. His very own navigation system. He doesn’t go anywhere without you. He can’t.

He hides, instead. Watches from afar. That way, you never part from him, and he can keep an eye on you, just how it’s always been. He keeps his hands very close to himself, and he doesn’t dare want any more than he’s allowed to. What happened a few minutes ago—it’s erased, discarded somewhere deep within him, somewhere he’d have to die to reach.

The coffee shop’s door opens, and the sun comes out, burning. You don’t notice him, not at first. This way, he gets to see you happy a little while longer. The friendly way you say your goodbyes, the soft wave of your hand, your mouth, how it pulls at the corners, how the clouds have moved, how concepts like redemption and salvation become a little more real, a little more possible for someone like him.

Do you know—the Heavens come down for you? And him, forever the snake, forever the apple given, slithering towards the Garden of Eden, condemned to entice but never taste, the original sin, punished to come close but not close enough, exiled, accursed.

He fills with desire, he prays. He speaks your name very quietly, and he hopes, and he waits.

When your eyes meet his own, it’s the Chronorift Catastrophe all over again. Massive stars die, their cores collapsing, the gravity immense, the density so high not even light can escape it. Black holes are born out of his Evol—the world caves in on itself. You blink and it happens again. Caleb has no control over it. Over himself, over this unspoken thing between you that’s been happening ever since creation.

Reprogram. Reprogram.

The man hugs you, unaware. Caleb can’t fault him, funnily enough, though it takes everything he fucking has not to answer to the nasty tightening of familiar jealousy inside his chest. Lightning courses through his veins, fingers begging to destroy, to bleed, to make an even bigger mess of things.

No.

He refuses adamantly, and moves his head to the side, severing all contact with you and your dangerous gaze, choosing to bite his tongue until he tastes copper, and ground himself to the cement underneath his boots.

He wants to grab you and shake you and demand. He doesn’t suppose you know what that means. He doesn’t know either. He knows so little about you these days, it seems. Much less about himself, and all this distance you’ve put between you. The unfairness isn’t lost on him. What is he doing here, waiting like this, when you’ve so easily moved on? If he had never glimpsed into that little window of your life today, would he have even known?

That there’s no value to his life anymore? That he signed it all away for the safety of a girl that puts her life in danger so easily, so recklessly, at every possible turn? What will it take to make you realize the evil lurking two steps behind at all times, and what if he’s not there when it decides— What does he have to do?

What more? What else?

Anger. Tap into it. It’s safer. It’s what you have. Copious fucking amounts of it.

He doesn’t see the way you don’t react to the man’s advances. How you hesitate after that. How sorry you are.

“How long have you been standing there?”

Caleb deflects. Puts on that see-through smile you hate the most, his amethyst eyes glinting with secrets and artificial sweetness. It’s getting harder to pretend, much harder to play the convincing role and keep the circus going. He attempts it anyway, even with the look you’re giving him. Against it.

“Not long,” he lies, and motions for you to follow. “It’s late. Did your phone die, or something?”

You lie too. “Yeah, sorry, were you calling? Forgot to charge it, I guess.”

“Hmm.”

Then, “How’d you know where I was, anyway?”

He doesn’t reply. You huff and slow down your steps. Caleb shuts his eyes tight for a second, breathing deeply, fighting multiple urges. This is already going terribly. He was only supposed to pick you up and bring you home. Ask if you had fun and deliver you to your room, where you were to stay for the rest of the night. It’s never easy with you. It will never be.

“Caleb.”

“Pip-squeak.”

“Answer me.”

He swallows with difficulty and resumes walking, fists at his sides. He doesn’t hear your footsteps trailing, but he does not stop. You’ve been stubborn all your life, but so has he. There is nothing wrong with having a way to know where you are. It is his job. His top priority. You can’t possibly be mad, especially with the way you’ve been acting. He can’t have you venture too far off by yourself. Not when he’s so close . . .

“Get in the car,” he says firmly, opening the door for you.

There’s fire crackling in your eyes. He’s seen it a million times. He’s wished to light himself on it, hand outstretched, a willing sacrifice for you. What will you say now, if he offered that same hand? Would you recognize the wrongness of it? Would you stomp your foot how you did when you were little, the whole world at your beck and call because he made it be so? Would you carry him back like he did?

“Is that the Colonel’s order?” your voice is full of the same emotion that governs him. It pierces through all defenses and lands straight through his heart. A clean shot.

He finds the damn thing still beating.

Caleb sighs and leans against the door of his vehicle, arms crossing one over the other. You mimic his stance. He smirks at you, feigning amusement, terrified inside.

“You already know the answer, sweetheart.”

“I want to hear you say it,” you retort, and he can’t stand the disappointment in your voice.

He ignores the very prominent tug of pure shame, and puts the fleet’s officer cap of indifference on for a little longer. “What do you want me to say?”

“That this is insane! That it cannot possibly go on.” You move faster than he anticipates, your small hands shoving at him with all your might yet failing to move even an inch of him. You try anyway. Again and again, until your eyes are wet, and your cheeks red with fury. He lets you, does nothing to stop you.

Not even when there’s people passing by, their accusatory glances messing with his already quickening temper. You can do whatever you want to him, but he cannot let you tarnish your reputation as a hunter for something as trivial as this. He won’t accept it.

“I’m taking you home. You can be mad all you want there.”

The silence that ensues makes him wish for a second death. A slow, painful one. One he can never come back from.

Because he’s responsible for this mistrust, this suspicion you won’t seem to shake off. He caused it, it’s his fault, his fault, his fault—

No matter how hard he tries to fix it. It’s beyond repair.

You’re leaving.

First thing in the morning. This was clearly a mistake, you tell him while slamming your suitcase open on his floor. He watches you do so, disgusted with despair. I’m not sure what I was thinking, clothes on his bed, shoes by his front entrance, your brush on his sink, your hand tearing apart whatever semblance of a man he scrambled to come up with to appease you.

My Caleb is gone.

He lunges towards you, your gasp the only indication of fear; he knew, of course he knew. You were afraid of this new version of him. The version that somehow commands an entire fleet, goes on classified missions that go against everything you’ve worked for as a Hunter, and keeps secrets from the same someone he used to sing lullabies to during bad summer storms. The version that would lock her inside a stranger’s room, inside a stranger’s house.

But really, wasn’t he always like this? The signs were there all along. He’d locked you in the attic before. He’d kept you there all day, knowing very well how you’d react, how you’d run to him after the coincidental rescue, declare him the hero. This darkness has been inside him for a long time. You’ve just been very good at looking the other way, very good at taking, not so very good at giving. Are you, pip-squeak?

When I don’t fit your definition of who ‘Caleb’ is, you simply shun me away and wipe your hands clean of me. I’m the one stuck here. Astute. Unable to move. Unable to let you go.

It ends here.

Your wrist is impossibly small as his fingers wrap around it, yanking, pulling you against his feverish body. You fight but only for a moment, his other hand coming to rest right above your mouth, rendering you mute, eyes wide, expecting, calculating.

“Will I do it?” He muses, violet eyes boring into yours, his desire palpable, his want a thousand knives, all double sided, honed for the perfect kill. You breathe deeply, trying to calm down that beating heart he so envies. Caleb leans further, hovering over you like a nightmare. “Will you let me, (Y/N)?”

You shake your head slightly, your brows furrowing with poignant emotion. Sadness. Towards what? Him? He can’t help but chuckle at the clueless girl in front of him. How he fought to stay the kindhearted boy from your childhood, at least in your eyes. He would’ve kept with the facade all his years, if it meant you’d always look at him with that proud expression he remembers from his college days. If it was truly up to him, you would’ve never seen him like this.

Alas, it was never up to him. Not once. Not ever.

“I must be pretty fucking pathetic to you, isn’t that right?”

Your gaze shatters and drops. Caleb presses on, fed up with himself, the self-loathing successfully managing to escape that dark pit at the bottom of his soul.

“What game are we playing now, pip-squeak? How do I win it?” He tilts your chin up, forcing your attention back on him. “Hmm?”

Seeing you cry will never get easier for him. It will always stab at him from the inside out, memories cataclysmic, and him, defenseless, useless, responsible, because—because—

“There was never any game, Caleb,” you breathe out, shakily. “You’re breaking my heart.”

Amethyst eyes lose the eternal fight, fall closed. His hands move, over your neck, hesitating there, tightening on your shoulders, bringing you close, holding you to him. Even like this. At least you’re here. Even like this.

“Say it again.”

“Say what?”

“My name. Say it again.”

He feels your ribs, their inhale, then the defeat—your head against his uniform-clad chest, your ear pressing closer, trying to listen for something that hasn’t worked right in a long time.

“Caleb. Caleb, Caleb, Caleb . . .” In the dead of night, he’s resurrected. “Come back to me,” a whisper of singular light that pierces through him, pierces through him, pierces through him.

It hurts. His love is not a good love, it is a violent one. A miserable existence, created from pain, from insatiable greed, from gut-wrenching need.

He kisses you. Grabs your face and walks you backwards to the nearest wall, his fingers buried deep in your hair, clenching, his mouth over yours, claiming, searching, your breath his own, your voice his own, your body, your body—

“You’re mine,” he rasps, drowning in you, lips trailing a path down, down, to your throat, where he sucks, where he marks. “You’ve always been, you’ll always be.”

“I don’t need you to—”

Caleb chuckles darkly. “You don’t need me? Is that what you think?” His feeling hand crawls over your flaming skin, reaching between you, under your skirt, your thigh, the inside of it, the place he’s been dreaming about, touching there. You cry out, surprised, aroused. “Tell me exactly what you don’t need, honey. Don’t leave nothing out.”

You say nothing, embarrassment flushing your pretty face in pinks. He wipes your tears very patiently, and slowly gets on one knee, then the other, until he’s kneeling in front of you, and isn’t that a sort of christening as well?

A man demolished, over six feet who-the-fuck-cares, commanding officer of nothing, exiled from his land, turned away from his home. He lost you, and then found you, and now again, this impossible story of repetition that shall never end, like the nightmares, like the torment.

He hugs your legs and rests his forehead on your soft mound. You stand very still, he doesn’t even think you’re breathing. This makes no sense to you. But to him—to him—

You’re sacred. You’re the war that’s raging on. The war he’s fighting for. The country he protects, the nation he serves.

“We’re too old for games, pip-squeak,” he ignores the ball forming in his throat, his burning eyes. “I’m tired.”

Caleb feels your digits digging into his scalp, running through his ragged hair, pulling at the ends, alleviating the pain. He swallows as to not cry out his hunger. The ache, though, it persists, and what to do with it?

It gnaws at him, little by little, every single day.

“It’s different now,” you say. “We’re different.”

He sinks his nose into your warm cunt, and inhales. Your knees buckle, but he holds you, he steadies you against the wall, he’s got you. You try to push, but he grabs your hand, interlocks your fingers with his. You try to speak, but he’s already pushing your underwear to the side, tongue daring to taste.

“Caleb.”

Moaning his name, he’s never heard of anything more beautiful. He wishes you never stop, wishes it more than anything. He almost breaks down right there. This is never going to happen again.

Is he dreaming? Is this a dream?

If it is—

“Don’t leave me,” he guides your leg over his shoulder, and doesn’t dare look up to see your face. You’re willing in his hands and you’re muttering his name. It’s more than enough. It’s everything. “My God, I’ll never forget this—”

You’re so compliant, he could do anything he wanted with you. All the fight had left your body. Was it even there to begin with? He knew you felt it too, he knew—then why condemn you both? Then why deny it?

Caleb didn’t stop believing once. There was no doubt in his mind.

“Please, I can’t,” you sigh, your words jumbled, blurring into one another, while his tongue sucks your clit into his mouth. The reaction he elicits out of you has him rock hard and leaking instantly. “Please, please, please, please. Caleb, I—oh my God—”

He works you up until the edge, feels your thighs shaking, feels the urgency of your fingers pulling. When you’re almost there, he moves away—your slick dripping, his chin glistening—and gets up, in all his height, gaze locking into yours.

You haven’t let go of his hand. He can’t feel a fucking thing.

A new wave of anger suddenly washing over him, he leans down and bites your lip. Your yelp gratifies the hankering inside him. He doesn’t mean to hurt you, he only means for you to experience an ounce of what he does every time his body denies him your delicate touch.

“I’ve thought about this for so long,” he whispers into the dark. “I never thought it possible, only a dream,” he brings you closer once again, hugging you to him as if he could somehow absorb you in on himself.

He senses the change in your demeanor immediately. This shy girl standing in front of him is nothing like the tough Hunter he witnessed infiltrating his fleet single-handedly. For you to be different with him, alone—he feels normal again, if just for a second.

“Have you . . . done this before?” You ask.

Caleb can’t help but laugh. “How could I?” He replies, incredulous. “There’s never been anyone else for me.

“You occupy every single fucking part of me, sweetheart.”

[frownyalfred]

WAS ASLEEP WHEN YOU POSTED THE CHAPTER BUT IM HERE NOW I LOVED IT SO MUCH!!!

I was immediately thinking about that parallel between Jason being Bruce’s comfort during the suppressant heats when he was little, vs Bruce being his comfort now, and I’m so glad you also mentioned that!!!! It’s so so so so important to me.

The comment u made about Dan being like “why does he keep trying to get off without me :(((“ is so funny like. Lex you have this alpha who just wants to make you cum So bad just please let him. He’s a service alpha through and through and lex needs to realize that and let it happen, once they have time when all of this settles. LET HIM TAKE CARE OF YOU I KNOW YOU CRAVE IT DEEP DOWN.

Clark chug some tea and get a tan and then go get ur family back Cmon buddy I support you you got this!!!!!

I’m so glad you loved it!!! Yes to all of the above. I hope when Jason wakes up safe in the nest soon he realizes how important of a role he played for Bruce back then! Because Bruce did it for him now. Afhhhhhhhhh the parallels!!

Yeah, Lex and Dan really need to figure stuff out. They’re like that couple that always has something bizarre going on. Somehow I don’t think it’ll get better once Dan is formally in the pack haha. I love them so much it’s not reasonable.

Clark has been sir not appearing for far too long! I’m so excited to finally write him again. He needed to be nerfed for this fic to work but no longer!

[botanycrewmember]

Sitting here thinking about the parallel of Jesse sitting in a hidden compartment in the Vacuum Man's truck and Nacho lying beneath the floorboards of the Los Pollos truck.

Both of them are given instructions on what to do once they reach their destinations, but one of them is being released into a new life, while the other is sentenced to death, and neither of them will ever be found again.

I don't think the writers did this on purpose but the parallels are so good that it's making me want to climb walls.

[fluffy-feathers23]

Hit with a random idea i think would be really cool actually i hope this makes sense lmao

We know Loop and Siffrin have their own parallel time loops, and one of them looping back (likely) does not effect the other - as evidenced by Siffrin keeping any current damage in the twohats fight, while loop fully heals, because they looped back to the "start" of the fight.

And possibly Loop being able to remember things that happen in Siffrin's loops, but it's also possible that's part of the wish they made, where they might remember more regardless of them looping again. They can't help very well if they forget potentially important information, after all!

But how do you think two different time loops working with each other interacts with the party?

If Loop told one of them something, would they forget it once Siffrin loops back? Or would it need to be Loop to loop back to before they told them in order for whatever party member to forget the bit where they interacted with Loop?

Like just imagine Loop tells one of them that Siffrin is in a time loop, and they don't know why, and no matter how many times Siffrin loops back, they won't stop coming up to him right at the start, asking if there's something wrong.

And Loop can't help figure out how to stop it for a while, because they don't realize it was because they said something about it like 20 loops ago. They both expected it to get "written over", like everything else.

Maybe this is one reason they don't want to be seen by anyone but Siffrin. Because they can't loop back, it risks forgetting something. And even if it actually doesn't because of the wish, maybe they just think it will, and avoid opportunities to be seen regardless.

I'm not entirely sure where i'm going with this at this point but i hope this gets the vision across !!

[xanadufoyerwaterwheeljr]

⭐LAST OF US RANTING ⭐

Mostly about people being mad about Pedro Pascal dying and being superficial and annoying and weird

I feel like the people (that didn't play the games) seemed to only watch Last of Us because they're attracted to Pedro Pascal. They only cared about him during the whole first season. Which makes sense the story kind of does that to you? But I have seen so many people say now that Pedro Pascal is gone they won't watch. Joel would never have been that interesting to play as if he never had Ellie! If he just lost his daughter and then he was every other person whos lost someone in the apocalypse. So in turn the show is the same. Joel becomes an interesting character AFTER he has Ellie as a parallel to his other shit. And to ONLY watch something because you're attracted to someone and not even care AT ALL ABOUT THE REST OF THE STORY is crazy. I admit I've watched shows because I'm attracted to the stars, or if I see even a HINT of gay, but I don't stick around to things if im not actually interested? Last of Us has an insane story with crazy points and very real characters and relationships. Yet people are only watching because of PEDRO??

People simultaneously are NOT attracted to Bella Ramsey and don't like them and have preconceived ideas about them. (The amount of fucking potato emojis are crazy. It does have a lot to do with Bella talking about their autism diagnosis, but Bella looks so normal i don't understand it. Like they look TOO normal. Just a normal guy.) People aren't even hating on Abby now cuz Katilyn Dever is also conveniently hot. Abby was never HOT to the vast majority. (Dont get me started im a loverthey and Abby is my GIRLRRRRRLLL) she was too strong and "manly" to the gamer gooners. But I've barely seen any hate except that she DOESNT look like that. Make up your minds fr. She has a different strong vibe to her that's easy to read on her groups faces. No one is calling her ugly now or making fun of her manliness or being unrealistic, no one is as mad about her killing Joel they're all mad about her killing PEDRO. I love Pedro too PROTECT THE DOLLS !! YES MA'AM

But I'm not watching for him. I never played the game for Joel. I played because Ellie was a likable and interesting character. And the way she made Joel more of an interesting character. Their relationship and the exploration of trauma and being faced with that with head on. Joel has to face the loss of his daughter and move on by being forced to protect Ellie. And then being traumatized by losing his FIRST daughter made him think he needed to do everything he could to not lose his second daughter. Including killing other people and not giving his daughter free will or autonomy. (I do understand the perspective of him saving ellie it does make sense to save someone you love I would probably do the same thing) I loved the show making Joel just shut up and listen.

He seemed to be once again forced to face his trauma head on. Abby telling him what he did, how many people he killed, WHO he killed, the real lives that he took. You could tell he knew he deserved it. The show is such a great way to expand these characters flesh them out and make them REAL ASF.

I feel like if I was watching this story without ever having played the games I would be ON THE EDGE OF MY SEAT. WHATS GONNA HAPPEN. JOEL DIES!!! The last episode of season one really shows that Joel had no care, he didn't reason with anyone, he didn't give anyone a chance. He just killed them all and left with Ellie. Him killing Marlene was so insane to me. He was ruthless. Overtaken by his own grief and trauma. I think if I had watched that without the game I still would've understood Abby and WHY Joel dies and what that will do to the story. Knowing Joel lies to Ellie and you know Eillie knows he's not telling her everything. That really puts it into perspective. Ellie is the main character, the circle or trauma. The domino effect your trauma can have on other people.

This STORY MAN !!!!

[call-sign-shark]

Thank you so much for your lovely comment and reblog Laur! I was a tad bit anxious about that one ‘cause it was aimed at deconstructing the saintly image of Heaven we know only because, as you said it so perfectly, we see it through Arthur and he perceives her with his own ideals (saint, saving grace, the one who’ll handle everything, soft, housewife and mother) while she’s a deeply traumatized and flawed individual who, let’s not forget, is a manipulator who struggles with empathy and fakes most of her tears/weakness moments.

Once again I’m astounded by how accurate your analysis is: the ugly truth is that Tommy knows her more than Arthur. Or at least, he understands her more. Doesn’t mean he’s right, doesn’t justify how much of an asshole he can be, but still. And, of course, that STRONG parallel with Amos is the final nail in the coffin when it comes to the attraction between the two.

Anyway! Thank you so much really. Shit is really about to hit the fan but aren’t we here for that? 🤭

Heaven in Your Eyes || Tommy Shelby x You

Summary: A haunting scent, a ghost from the past, and a confession too raw to take back. Masks always end up dropping in Arrow House. || to listen on repeat during your reading.

Words: 5.4k

TW: self-harm and extreme angst, grief, mental illness, manipulation, Hev is not your typical nice reader she's really twisted and it was the case from the beginning! I wasn't joking when I said that this story was going to take a brutal, very dark turn so please, proceed carefully. Also, if you wanna hate, be a warrior and switch off anon.

Notes:

✞ Heaven in Your Eyes is mostly an Arthur Shelby story but considering what happens to him in this part of S4, this chapter will revolve around the MC, and then Tommy.

✞ This is chapter 18 of the Arthur Shelby x You series Heaven in Your Eyes. Each chapter can be read as a stand-alone.

PREVIOUS || Masterlist || NEXT PART

The smooth metal of the razor blade caught the light perfectly when you turned it slowly between your thumb and index finger, tilting it just enough to watch the fascinating glint dance across the edge with a far off look etched on your angel face. It was fascinating. You meant the way this delicate thing, small enough to disappear in your palm, was so sharp that all you'd have to do to get hurt was to lightly close your hand around it.

You were sitting on the edge of the cold porcelain bathtub, your left ankle resting on your right knee. Your silk nightgown had been pushed up over your thighs, their pale skin looking like freshly fallen snow under the feeble light. In your hand, the razor blade trembled slightly as you brought it to your thigh and lightly dragged the edge along your flesh. Not enough to break, but surely enough to feel the whisper of its pressure grazing you. 

The familiar thrill of anticipation, the one that simmered just before the pain and the relief, was as vivid as you remembered.

A sarcastic snort echoed in the bathroom when you gave a second thought at that old habit you thought you had buried long ago. What do they say, here in England? Ah. Old habits die hard. 

Instinctively, your crystal eyes fell upon the coarse scars that were carved deep inside both of your thighs. The sight of the white, messy, and swollen lines made your stomach churn slightly. It wasn’t really about the way they looked but it was rather the meaning of them that disturbed you whenever you deigned to look. Each slash was a testimony of when you'd lost control and, truly, they were far too many to count. Layer upon layer of healing tissue, you had marked the times you broke. The times you didn't know how else to breathe. And before you could realize it, it gradually stopped being shocking and, somehow, became a routine. Until butchering yourself felt like the most natural thing to do in case of overload.

It started after the slaughter of your whole family. Stopped when he found you. Started again when you left him.

It wasn’t fair, you conceded. You had sworn to Arthur you'd never go back to this. Not after telling him about the nights spent shaking on the floor. Not after Lucy found you curled up in your own blood and rage several times. But had he wished to make sure you’d respect your oath and feel good enough not to dive back into it, he would have been here. In the meantime, you were the one alone in this bleak bathroom, consumed by a dizzying void that was starting to grow insufferable. Alone while the whole fucking world spun too fast around you,  with a blade back in your hand.

Fuck the lot of them. You thought, exhausted.

Tommy for poisoning your blood. Arthur for being so selfish and stupid. Polly for always tricking you into protecting this cursed family. Ada for always watching you with hidden disgust since the day you had killed a man to save Charlie. Michael just for being born and John for not being able to stay fucking alive.

The blade kissed your skin like an old lover in one clean and controlled cut. Instantly, the pain, or rather the slightly uncomfortable itch, bloomed when your flesh broke apart. For a split second, you felt it — the awful, guilty relief. The kind that said "you’re still here, Hev. You still feel something".

Your bambi lashes fluttered with pleasure as liquid ruby gushed from the cut. 

Alright, just a second one. Or a third. Maybe a fourth. Fifth, but you swore it was the last one.

You stopped only when the canva of your flesh was entirely painted in red, finally dropping the razor onto the tiles with a sharp clatter. The sound of it, chiming in the whole bathroom, brought you back to your senses.

“Merde.” You cussed, when you saw how bad you had hurt yourself,  heart banging in your chest so brutally you thought you’d soon throw it up. Your chest rose and fell rapidly at the sight of blood already blooming in warm, slick lines across your thigh. Too bright, too fast. You pressed your palm against it on instinct, hissing through your teeth. Fortunately, neither the searing pain nor the dizziness got the better of your reflexes. Pushing away the looming madness to the back of your head, you grabbed the white towel nearby and wrapped it around your bleeding thigh.

Something was wrong.

Well, something has been wrong for a while and you could trace it back to John’s death, if one wanted to be precise. Since that cursed day you found him lying in a crimson puddle of his own blood, riddled with bullets, your happiness had shattered like glass around you. Or, rather, the illusion of it. You had to face it: your wedding to Arthur Shelby only worked when things were fine, then turned into shit at the first hard blow. John died and, all of sudden, Arthur’s worst flaws exploded and they proved to be more overwhelming than what you had expected.

Amos… He always had a knack for knowing what to do when it all came crashing down. He’d wrapped his arms around you and soothe your deepest fears as you nuzzled your nose in the crook of his neck, lulled by his sweet perfume, his warmth and velvet voice. Then he’d just take care of the problem with his teeth and claws.

You shook your head, chasing him away from your mind by forcing yourself to focus on your wounds. Amos wasn’t here either anyway. 

Once the bleeding had dwindled, you stood groggily and dragged your slim being out of the bathroom, careful not to look in the mirror as you passed by it out of fear of what would stared back. Maybe a ghost of you, or ink-black eyes, who knows. No matter what it could be, you were pretty sure you wouldn’t like it.

The need to flee from this ridiculous mansion had intensified lately. Arrow House’s walls had started to feel too suffocating for you to bear anymore. Sure, staying inside would drastically reduce your chance of getting shot by a bunch of fedora-wearing Italians, but the probability that you ended up dead and cold after bleeding yourself dry increased day by day. That was why you paid no heed to Tommy’s rules and you descended the stairs in silence. 

Once you reached the backdoor, you pulled on a long black coat, laced up your boots, and slipped out into the vast garden, vanishing into the night, the thick fog swallowing you whole.

Your legs automatically carried you to the mighty stables at the end of Arrow House’s garden. As much as you hated the mansion, the exteriors of it never failed to amaze you with its beauty and gargantuan size. Well, it wasn’t as impressive as the Alpine landscapes you were used to but it still offered many places in which one could rob a fleeting moment of peace amidst some Shelby chaos.

After wandering for a while, you had decided to keep a magnificent white mare, that was grazing near the stables, company. She probably belonged to Tommy, taking into account that Charlies’ one was inside its stall. You ran your little hand along the mare’s mane and she shifted under your palm, asking for more rubs. Her reaction stirred a tired smirk that tugged on your lips. To be fair, she looked as ghostly as you with her shining white coat. 

Still stained with dry blood, your fingers moved in slow, tender strokes along the strong line of the beast’s neck to probe her reaction further. She seemed to trust you, which wasn’t particularly surprising. You always had a gift with animals for lack of being good with humans. Sometimes you wondered if you really were your mother’s daughter — she was known to be patient, empathic and always smiling. Far away from the so-called Russian coldness.The more you thought about it, the more you came to the conclusion that she must have swallowed down all the darkness and somehow passed it on to you, drop by drop, like poison in a silver spoon.

A little sigh escaped your juicy lips, slightly chapped by the cold. The creaking wood of the stable mixed with the warm scent of hay managed to soothe your restless mind a little. A well-deserved moment of quietness you knew wouldn’t last long but that was more than welcome nonetheless. If only you could have slept there, curled up in a ball against the mare’s flank instead of rolling and tossing in your large bed in Arrow House you’d have done it in a heartbeat.

You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the comforting melody of the wind and the leaves’ rustle play as you scratched the mare behind her ear. Her warmth beneath your palm and the sensation of her short-haired coat against your fingers kept you anchored as the winter air settled around your bones and numbed your pain.

 "So, are you happy?"

Your eyes flashed wide open, as though you had been torn from a far-too-realistic dream. The air in the stable suddenly felt thinner, harder to breathe. 

It couldn’t… 

The hand that was resting on the horse tensed as each of your nerves burst back to life with a deadly combination of recognition, dread and longing.

"You're not real." You managed to reply, though your haunting voice was barely above a whisper.

"You didn't answer," the voice said softly, "Are you happy, Hev?"

You felt the unmistakable presence closing in behind you, as if he were rising from both the fog and the darkest corners of your mind. One of the mare’s ears twitched, as if she had heard him too.

“You’re not fucking here.” You tried to be firm but you were already faltering. In fact, your heart pounded in your ribcage as a familiar scent covered the musky hay. It was faint at first, but the more you tried to ignore it, the more persistent it became. A mix of myrrh and tonka, sweet and faintly smoky, that clung to the air around you. 

“You’re not—” The strength you needed to finish your sentence faded away, leaving the remaining words to die in your dry throat. As for that damn perfume, invasive and vivid,  it wrapped around your spine as though you had never managed to scrub it from your skin despite these last three years and another man in your bed.

“You can keep pretending I’m gone for good if that makes you feel better, but we both know the truth.” His sultry voice vibrated through your body, shaking you to the marrow.

"You’re dead to me.” You spat, each word trembling with the effort it took to say them.

"And yet," He murmured and seemed to grow closer "I never left you."

Your stomach lurched like you’d just swallowed a whole broken glass, whose shards were slashing you from the inside. Heat flushed your face, but your limbs went cold, your knees locking to keep from buckling. Surely, it couldn’t be happening right?

So why was your pulse thundering in your ears, panic rising fast, raw and feral? Why couldn’t you find the courage to turn around and make sure he was a fragment of your imagination? Maybe because, deep down, you knew. You knew that some sick parts of you wanted to believe that he was really there.

“You never forgot me.” He added. 

A flock of birds burst out of the closest tree, swarming then flying away. 

“I tried to!” You suddenly cracked. It was too much: silent tears of diamond rolled down your cold kissed cheek, “I tried my fucking best!” As the confession slipped from your sinful lips, a maelstrom of long buried emotions crashed against you like a rogue wave. You started to tremble, the ball of sadness growing in your throat. You pressed your forehead against the mare’s warm neck, eyes screwed shut as if to hold back a flood. The creature moved gently beneath you and let out a low, sorrowful neigh for your grief had seemed to bleed into her.

"You did try." He replied. His tone was patient, but laced with the quiet, unbearable pain of a wound that refused to heal, ”you buried me alive and tried to build something new on top of our ruins… And now look at you, standing on your empire of lies. Are you sick of pretending?”

Every fiber of you coiled at the accusation, the bitter taste of guilt twisting your stomach.

“I thought…” You gritted your teeth, swallowing back your sorrow with great difficulty even though your tears continued to flow endlessly, “I thought a clean start would do the trick. I thought putting as many miles as I could between us would be enough. Hell, I even married someone else but you’re still fucking here. Always. Like an infection too deep to severe.”

A faint breeze blew in your long white mane, its moonlight strands fluttering in the wind. 

He was right. You had tried to outrun it and here was the sad, pathetic, result.

He spoke again after a brief silence. 

"Tell me, did you marry out of love?”  He asked, with words as sharp as a well-honed blade slid between your ribs, seeking to split you open and see the ugly truth that hid inside.  The voice was calm but it didn’t keep you from feeling the corrosive burn of it, “Or was it because you couldn’t stand being alone with the version of yourself your evil, twisted, disgusting monster of a former fiancé left behind?”  He didn’t need to say me for both of you to know who he meant.

More tears rolled down your seraphic face, their salty drops dying in your neck and dampening the mare’s coat. She gently poked you with her head, letting out a noisy sigh from her nostrils. 

“I was young. I was scared. And… what you did that night—” your voice cracked, the confession feeling like razor blades in your throat. You wished to keep blaming him for everything because it made things easier, but the thought of him on the church’s floor, screaming in agony as he brought his hands to his maimed and bloody face flashed in your mind. Sure, he had tried to hurt you but the guilt was here nonetheless, acrid and nauseating.

“I know,” he said, quieter than before but with the sharp edge of something that sounded dangerously close to regret. “I relive it every time I close my eyes.” 

Silence stretched for what seemed to be an eternity.

“Do you really think so low of me?”

Your shut your eyes tighter, “It was the only way I could survive losing you.  I had to tear you apart in my head, piece by piece, ‘cause I knew I’d never get over you.“ Your breath hitched, your tight chest heaving as something inside you snapped. You gritted your teeth this time, finally giving up on your fight against your need to burst into real tears. What was the point, anyway?  

“But I ruin everything, don’t I?” you spat, reopening your eyes wild and wet, a surprising boiling fury igniting through the cracks. Different from your usual cold anger. Your fingers curled into a fist against the mare's side and, as you did, your wedding ring pressed into your flesh and seemed to cut deeper than the razor blade you had held one hour ago.  “Whether I mean to or not. Everyone I touch fucking dies or ends up shattered. That’s what I do, eh. I destroy. I rot things. And now look at me—” you couldn’t help but laugh, the sound of it indescribably filled with sarcasm, “still clinging to a ghost I never let go of.”

You wiped your cheeks with the back of your hand, trying to breathe through the tightness in your chest as three years worth of secrets finally came into light.

“You’re flickering, Light of my Life, like a flame in the wind, too tired to fight the night of Small Heath.” He murmured, but the resentment in his voice was gone now and replaced by tenderness. And somehow, his presence - this impossible fragment of him conjured by memory or madness, or both - didn’t scare you anymore. It felt like a blanket wrapped around you.

"Please Amos, stop haunting me..." Your voice cracked, thin and fragile, like a thread pulled too tight.

“Stop haunting me too, then.” 

“Don’t start,” You warned, shaking your head weakly in a denial that lacked conviction.

The mare stirred beneath you again as she sensed the storm behind your ribs.

 “Arthur is a good man, I don’t want to hurt him,” you murmured.

“He might be,” He said. “But you didn’t choose him. You ran to him.”

You closed your eyes again, pressing your forehead against the mare’s side a little more as if she could shield you from the tempest in your heart.

“Say it,” he whispered with the howling wind. “Say you never looked back. Say you don’t dream of me when it’s too quiet to lie to yourself.”

Your lips parted to deny, but no sound came. All that fell from your mouth was a shaky breath. You tried to resist, to shove it down where all the other truths rotted. But you couldn’t. Not anymore. 

“…I do,” you whispered, and the words felt like they tore straight through your chest.

“So come back to me, please.”

The sudden sensation of a tangible, warm hand touching your back tore you from the depths of your mind.

Jolting, you spun around in one quick movement, ready to unsheathe the knife you always hid in your garter. Against all expectation, it wasn’t Amos that stood behind you but Tommy, half-shadowed by the fog that curled into his feet. The expression that was etched on his perfect freckled face was unreadable, eternally cool, save for the worries that burnt bright in his piercing turquoise eyes.

“Are you alright?” He inquired with his hoarse voice, the thick brummie accent rolling on his tongue.

You blinked at him, looking confused as though you had just woken up from a feverish dream. His hypnotic gaze dropped to your thigh the moment a gust of wind blew your long dark coat out of the way.

“You’re bleeding.” He sounded concerned.

You looked down and noticed thin trails of crimson running down the inside of your thigh, soaking into the white fabric of your nightgown. The mare lowered her huge head to sniff it, visibly as worried as the Peaky Blinder Devil.

“It’s nothing.”  You retorted quickly as you tugged your coat around you, the memories of the two of you almost fucking in the living room crawling back to your skull.

It didn’t seem to convince him. Of course, you should have known that it wouldn’t be enough to push Tommy Shelby away. At least, he had the unexpected courtesy of not bringing up the fact you had been crying - quite hard to hide with your puffy red eyes and wet cheeks.

“It’s not nothing,” He stepped closer, slowly and carefully, as if you were a wounded animal too proud to limp. You took one step back as he did.

“Tell me what’s going on. You were talking to someone.” He growled, briefly surveying his surroundings to make sure no one was hiding beneath the stables but, sincerely, he doubted it.

“Oh.” You sniffed and, for the first time in years when facing Tommy, your gaze fled from him and locked onto the far away distance, just above his shoulder, “It was just me talking to ghosts,” Your lips stretched in a humorless smile that definitely didn’t echo in your empty eyes, “Quite fitting for the diabolical witch I am, right, Thomas? You’ve come right in time for the sacrifice.” 

Tommy didn’t reply with any dry remarks to insult you, nor did he take advantage of the situation to hurt you more as he used to do. In fact, he only watched you in silence, his eyes narrowing at the sight of you trying to brush off the topic. The tension in his square jaw betrayed his genuine concern, and though he didn’t offer comfort, he might be the fittest person to understand how you felt. How couldn’t he when he lived in the same kind of haunted house, plagued by the memory of Grace that seemed to inhabit the very walls of the mansion? The blue-eyed demon let out a long sigh through his nostrils before shifting his focus from you.

He approached again, stopping only once he stood next to your little frame. Then, he began to stroke the mare for the beast had grown anxious due to your inner turmoil. Horses were quite empathic after all. He had barely touch the animal when calm settled in her again.

“What was his name?” Tommy finally asked, out of the blue.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your fiancé. What was his name?” He continued without looking at you, remembering what you had said just before your hands wrapped around his neck.

I know the man you are because my former fiancé was cut from the same cloth. An egocentric criminal with bulging ambition, a far too high sense of self esteem and a greed beyond words. A man who dragged his loved ones down with him without even realizing it.

“No.” You replied, point blank. 

“No?”

“Don’t even fucking try.”  You gritted your teeth.Admittedly, you knew that Thomas Shelby had already done research about you so, naturally, he probably tried to find out more about the man who used to share your life. It seemed like it had been in vain — not surprising when considering how well Amos handled the information that circulated about him.

His shoulders slouched down slightly as he side-eyed you, observing the tight line your mouth was forming. There was no way you’d talk about him to anyone. Especially Tommy. Not when the memory of him still clawed at your chest like a second heartbeat and that just pronouncing his name felt like a stabbing wound. So you did what you did the best: swallowing it down and letting it decay where no one could reach it. 

Tommy focused on the mare again, finding a bit of peace in the beast’s aesthetic and its similarities to yours. All white and ghostly. 

“Do you know how to ride?”

You shrugged, “Yes, but it’s been a while.”

Tommy simply replied with a little hum before retreating into silence again. Here you both stood, petting the beautiful mare while the fog embraced you, like the Limbo’s mist calling two of its lost souls home. It was only after a while that he spoke again.

“You know… She haunts me the same.” He finally confessed, “Grace.” 

Your aquamarine eyes flicked to him, utterly surprised to hear the name leaving his mouth. One sole look at him was enough to notice how his jaw had tightened again. For a moment Tommy Shelby didn’t look like himself, but worn and far away as though not standing in the stable, but at the edge of a tunnel back in France.

“She didn’t frostburn like you do,” he continued, his gaze far off, “She was quieter. A calm strength that could move mountains. She had this way of looking at you… Like she already knew your worst, and loved you anyway. No flames. No storms. No shovels. Just peace.”

Somewhere behind him stood Arrow House bathed in darkness, the whole mansion a phantom of the bright, warm and full of life home it used to be when Grace walked around with baby Charlie in her arms.

Tommy blinked, trying to retrieve his composure, before reaching for a cigarette. As usual, he rolled the filter on his lower lips nervously and lit it with his zippo. You had always found this little quirk of him kind of charming. The silver cigarette case was presented to you, open and inviting.

You thanked him with a little nod and took one, letting the Peaky demon lighting the tip for you. 

It was only after a few drags that your lips parted, “There are people you meet and you know. Not because they’re good for you. Not because they make sense. But because something in your soul remembers.” A bitter smile ghosted over your fleshy lips.

His eyes flicked to you briefly.

“That’s what Arthur is for you?” He asked, but the way the corner of his lips curled showed that he already knew the answer.

“Arthur’s a good man.” You repeated.

Tommy arched one of his brows.

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“No, it wasn’t.” You admitted, with your far-too-pale eyes fixed on the horizon as if Amos were standing there in the mist, just out of reach.

“Why did you marry him then?” His voice held no resentment for once, just plain curiosity.

“Why do you fuck with all the girls you meet?” 

The question took him aback, you saw it in the way he had coughed right after his magnificent blue eyes widened a bit. To be fair, watching him almost choke on his cigarette smoke could have been comical in different circumstances.

“The answer to our questions is certainly the same, Thomas. Just to stop bleeding.”

Tommy sighed, watching the cigarette consuming itself between his calloused fingers as he took the bullet. He brought it to his mouth and said nothing, unable to do so. All he did was stand there, the smoke of the cigarette that was hanging from his perfect lips framing his face as though he had just walked out of hell. Then he nodded, accepting the bitter truth: your pain was the reflection of his.

The mare gently nudged your shoulder, and, instinctively, you reached up and stroked her face.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love your brother sincerely but..” You couldn’t finish the sentence for something monstrous crept slowly through your veins. Not a sudden jolt nor another storm of emotions like the one you had gone through before Tommy interrupted, but rather the quiet, creeping certainty that there was something definitely wrong inside of you. A rotten, twisted, beyond redemption thing. You still remembered the night you met Arthur vividly. You had been singing in the silence of a candlelit church, letting your haunting voice rise like a prayer from the ruins of your soul. The enchanting lilt sounded as though it belonged to someone good. Someone holy. When Arthur Shelby stumbled in, bleeding, drunk and broken, you hadn’t asked any question nor shown fear, as would have the rest of Small Heath done when facing the Peaky Blinders’ mad dog. You, on the contrary, had simply gone to him and wipe the blood from his face with a torn piece of your own dress rinsed in holy water. Then you had cradled him like he was fragile creature, not a ticking time bomb.

He had looked at you, dazed and teary.

Yer an Angel. I swear you are eh.

Oh God, how wrong he was.

You weren’t an angel and you had never been. You were the abomination that had sung to mask the stench of blood that clung to your skin. The abomination that had murdered more than she could remember, stitched people together only to tear them apart when they got too close to what you kept buried beneath the surface ‘cause you couldn't afford them to know how fucking shallow, manipulative and twisted you could be.

Arthur had been so blinded by the light that he hadn’t noticed the shadows. A few crocodile tears and flutters of long lashes had done the trick to convince him further of your holiness. Of course, you had meant no harm to him. Your affection was sincere, it wasn’t just the same as you thought it would be. 

He thought of you as a savior, but the truth was you couldn’t tell if you were truly able to save someone, or if you just dragged people down with you.

As for Tommy… He had seen through it from the very beginning. One of the first things Thomas Shelby had told you before strangling you the day of your first encounter was that he wouldn’t tolerate a witch and a murderer around his family, nor would he let you take advantage of Arthur and ruin him. At that time, you had bitten back. You had been sharp,and defiant as you retorted that it wasn’t your intention - and you weren’t lying. But now, with all the blood under your nails and the rot inside of you coming to light as well as your marriage turning to shit, your realized the ugly truth: little King Shelby was right from the start.

“Tommy?” You called, surprisingly softly.

“Hm?” He looked at you, curious. The way you sporadically called him by his nickname never failed to stir something in him.

“I know now.”  You murmured as a bitter, creepy but utterly tragic smile stretched the corner of your desirable lips “I see why we’ve always hated each other so much. What binds us. What pulled us together like two magnets.”

He straightened, throwing his cigarette away in the fog. It shot through the air in soft orange light. His strong jaw was still tense, all the muscles ticking beneath his skin and suddenly, his hand reached for your face without any hesitation. His fingers, rough and cold, grabbed your chin between his thumb and index finger before tilting your face toward his. The scent of whiskey, cigarettes and expensive perfume rose all around you.

You leaned into his touch softly, tenderly, and looked at him — really looked at him. In his turquoise eyes you saw everything: the cold logic. The ruins. The grief that never healed. The habit of using sex to get whatever you wanted or dull the pain. The empire of lies and torn bodies. The blood. The self-loathing. The arrogance. Everything…

“So you finally admit that you fucking feel it,” He said without the shadow of a smile, but with a scorching intensity burning through his ice-cold eyes, the flames of hell dancing in his dark pupils and licking the edge of it.

You nodded slowly and as you did your mask cracked… Then shattered. It fell to the forest ground and splintered into a thousand jagged pieces. 

His hand didn’t move. His eyes didn’t blink. But the electricity between you crackled again, like the charge of thunder before it breaks.

“Enlighten me then, ey…” he rasped, almost like a dare, with his hoarse voice making the world quake around you.

You inhaled sharply, the wind whipping your long white hair across your seraphic face. It tangled across your cheeks, veiled your eyes in long streaks of ivory, bringing out the ethereal sharpness and perfect, inhuman symmetry of your features. Your beauty was too flawless to offer comfort. Too pristine to be trusted. Tommy stared at you, unblinking, because he knew — he had always known that face didn’t belong to something holy. No, it belonged to nightmares.

When you spoke again, the forest fell silent around you.

“That’s the thing about monsters,” you said, your siren voice mingling into the howling wind like a spell, “they always recognize their own.”

And for a second, just one, you both stood there like mirrors. No more lies, no more pride nor walls of ice built high around your hearts.  Just two fractured reflections in the same cracked glass, splintered differently, but born of the same mess.

It wasn’t Amos you had hated in him.

It was you.

Taglist: @adaydreamaway08 @theshelbyclan @esposadomd @woofgocows @anathemasworld @anastasia0082 @kate654 @kxnnxy @babayaga67 @meowtastic @shelbyssins @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @bluevenus19 @kishie8 @zablife @alexandra-001 @alexizodd @helen06dreamer @kmc1989 @peakyswritings @peakyltd @chaosinkest1996@vanhelsingsbigtoe @cherubswhispers @lokigirlszendaya @justrainandcoffee @mischievouslittlecreature @jjovin3221 @randomcreator-09@weepingdreammarvel @meadowshelby @evita-shelby

[whump-till-ya-jump]

Snippet #2 Part 3

Guys, I think I figured out a name for this series. How does Parallels sound?

TW: Pills and talk of sleeping aids

The child wept in their sleeping bag, trying to muffle the sound of their sobs with a pillow. They flinched when they felt their friend’s hand on their back. “What’s wrong?” the child asked. 

“I-I can-n’t sle-ep,” the crying child complained.

 “Why?”

“M-mons-sters and nh-nightmares.”

 They felt warmth and breathed in the other’s scent as they were pulled into a sweet, tight embrace. “It’s okay, the monsters can’t get us. I’m here.”

…

Hero’s body burned with pain and sores as they made their way through Villain’s kitchen. C’mon, just hold out long enough for this, please. They thought as their grip turned white on the kitchen island. 

…

Villain woke up to the sound of cabinets opening and strained whimpers of pain. They got up out of concern because they knew only one person was responsible. Slippers on, they made their way into the kitchen.

…

“You should not be up right now,” a voice rang from across the room as a light turned on and illuminated a frowning Villain. 

“Yeah? Well, I am, so fucking deal with it I guess,” Hero replied. 

Villain could hear the strain in their voice, but they paid no mind to it as they took notice of Hero’s position. Villain’s eyebrow raised, “What are you doing?” 

“I’m looking.”

“For what?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I am worried, you should not be standing or walking.”

Hero sighed and turned to face Villain, “I’m looking for some fucking sleep meds. So, if you don’t have any, then please tell me so I can go back to my prison cell.”

Villain’s frown changed to a look of concern as they walked toward Hero. They truly took in what Hero had become: a skinny figure that was clutching the countertops and shaking, trying to stay upright. “I have melatonin. But, I don’t know if that will help. I can get you something stronger if you were using any before you came here.”

“You mean before you fucking kidnapped me and brought me here.”

“Hero, language.”

An annoyed huff. “I’ll take the melatonin. Thanks.”

Villain moved slowly and predictably toward the cabinet they kept their medications in. I should probably get a lock for that. They took out a pill and held it up to Hero, “I’ll give you this, but please talk to me.”

Hero let out a whine, “No, just give it to me please.”

“Please talk to me,” was all Villain had to offer in reply.

Hero turned and started toward their room, “I’m good then, have a nice fucking night with your melatonin.”

…

Three hours later and Villain once again was awoken by noise from the kitchen. “Hero, this is just pathetic,” they sighed as they saw the familiar sight of sleep-deprived Hero limping their way to the medicine cabinet.

 “You say pathetic, I say necessary,” Hero fumbled with the door of the cupboard, almost losing grip of their countertop support.

 “Here, let me do it,” Villain offered. They quickly overtook Hero and soon had one pill of melatonin, which they slid across the table. 

“What’s the gist?” Hero asked as they eyed Villain.

“No gist, you need sleep, I need sleep. Just take it.” 

“I kinda need water, dummy.” 

…

Content with the outcome of their second venture into the kitchen, Hero was being guided back to their room with the help of Villain. 

“Now that you’re all good, I’ll be heading back to my bed,” Villain announced after Hero sat on the bed. 

“Uhm,” Villain turned to Hero, “Before I go, I thought, uh, I thought this might help.” 

 Villain plopped down beside Hero.

“What?” Hero scowled

Villain hesitated at Hero’s words, but placed a hand on their back. They pulled Hero into an embrace, “Just a hug, to let you know that I’m here.”  

THANKS FOR READING!

(Masterlist)

(also let me know what we think about the name)

TAGLIST: @rosieposey-torturedpoet @piplupfluffwritingstuff2 @and-we-shake-the-iron-hand

[felixir-of-moths]

🎸 'A Life Trite and Jaded' kind of psychics has me intrigued!

\o/ This is my first work on AO3, I was actually having a hard time going back at it with all the fun prompts / new ideas I'm writing. But it's a story that means a lot to me, so I'm glad to finally start the 6th chapter !

A bit of context : Eddie and Max have a sibling-like relationship. She's missing for three years now, and Eddie is living (more like haunting really) in the trailer Billy and Max used to share. Billy stopped looking for her and just bailed. The story begins when two 'private detective' show up, saying they've been hired to open Max's case again. They're both... weird. Some articles online even say they're frauds, pretending to be psychic or something.

At the end of chapter 5, Eddie picks up the guitar he offered to Max a long time before, changes the rusty old chords, and starts playing - it's being a long time since he played. Then, a voice sings along with him.

Sometimes, Eddie would hear Max's voice. It was either in confused dreams, or in dull moments of the day with a vivid impression that she was right there. He would drink milk from the carton and hear 'Ugh, gross, use a glass Freak, were you raised in a trailer or something ?' and he would chuckle, spit milk over his shirt, look around, instantly feeling more alone than before. One embarrassing morning, when he was still working at the... car wash ? Diner ? Which one of those shitty jobs was it ? Never mind. He was supposed to go to work, and he waited for Max outside the trailer for twenty minutes, a bit annoyed that she was late for school and was making himself late. Every time, the devastating reality of her absence was like a car crash in slow motion. He would feel the first tremor of it, would try to shrug them off, but it was useless : he was gonna slowly crumble later that day. Slowly, slowly crumble into a fucking mess. However, it's not what's happening right now. As soon as he hears her, he stops plucking the chords and jerks his head up, meeting Steve's eyes. They're wide – they're also hazel but that's not the point right now. “Max ? Holly shit, Max, is that you ?” Eddie's voice is shaking. “You heard her, right ?” he asks, feverish, and when Steve nods he feels his heart jumping inside his chest. “Shit, I'm not crazy, you heard her singing ?” That's when all the guitar's chords snap in the same time, like cut by an invisible pair of scissors. In a sharp twang, they whip and recoil all at once – the six of them – and the metallic shriek make Steve and Eddie almost jump from the bed. Two chords slash Eddie's face in the process, leaving a stinging pain and two small parallel cuts over his nose.

All the links to the posted fics are here !

[daenysthedreamer101]

Rhaenyra and Helaena - sisters on opposite sides of the war

[whyohwhydoris]

Public service announcement for Andor. Hope this helps some of y'all!

Brasso says "I'm going to kill you" quietly and calmly - not in a manner which is consistent with providing a cover. The farmer's smile can easily be read as a nervous grimace as a result of seeing Brasso's explosive anger, as a laugh/smile response driven by fear and stress, or any number of other reads. Similarly, I'm not seeing any coy smile from Brasso. Multiple readings present theirselves, and you're free to interpret.

Perrin's toast directly parallels messages of hope and effort present in both Andor and Rogue One. He states that the galaxy will present Darkness, that life is difficult. He also seems to look meaningfully at Mon while speaking to the goodness to be found regardless. We know he was once politically active, is actively politically plugged in, considers the world to be a sad and depressing place, has a history of dependent behaviour in gambling and suggestions of the same with drinking. Despite that, he has kept his promises to Mon, defers to her regularly, has spent extensive periods of time essentially being a single parent to Leida, and support's Mon's political efforts and has an eye turned to her political threats. This presents a counter-read to the common "Perrin is a selfish hedonist" many assume. Again: Multiple readings present theirselves, and you're free to interpret.

Syril and Dedra can actually have a healthy and functional relationship with defined boundaries and responsibilities which is mutually affirming and supportive - that is, be #relationshipgoals. Denise Gough said of Dedra "She is not just a woman in a man's world, but a fascist in a world of fascists." This highlights how Dedra's intersectionality is vital in her role as a character. She does face the implied barriers of gender in season one, but that doesn't preclude her from being a fascist. Here, she faces class and assumed-class barriers. Syril is clearly deeply scarred by his relationship with his horrendously toxic mother. Neither thing excuses their fascism, and their fascism doesn't preclude them possessing or expressing traits which in isolation are laudable or relatable. One could read a key aspect of Andor's mission as being to make us see and understand that our neighbors, "friends", and "loved ones" can in fact be fascists despite our personal experiences. This naturally juxtaposes the fact that Cassian was a bad boyfriend or Vel and Cinta having an unstable relationship, despite also being Rebels. But once more: Multiple readings present theirselves, and you're free to interpret.

Public service announcements for Andor. Hope this helps some of y'all!

The farmers didn't snitch on Bix and Brasso. Brasso lied so the Imperials wouldn't suspect the farmers were sheltering him. This isn't a blink-and-you-miss-it moment. There is a carefully framed shot of the farmer smiling gratefully at Brasso, and then a second carefully-framed shot of Brasso on the ground smiling back at the farmer.

Perrin's toast wasn't about finding quiet moments of joy in dark times. He was saying that marriage is slow torture and carnal pleasures are the only escape. Maybe it's because I've been in a happy marriage for longer than Tumblr needs to know, but I saw this and immediately processed it as bad advice from a dirtbag husband.

Dedra and Syril are not #relationshipgoals. They're just awful violent people. This one's tricky because actors Denise Gough and Kyle Soller are extremely talented and, by all accounts, lovely people IRL. But there was a decades-long Star Wars to IRL neo-facist pipeline, and Andor is trying to counteract that, so it's pretty important for us as an audience to not jump into that trap again.

[hinamie]

domain expansion