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contentloadingandstuff · 3 months ago

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Equals: Chapter III - Kitsune!Male!Reader x Yae Miko

A/N: Finally, eh? I didn't expect this idea to get so popular. This one got quite chonky, 4.5k words, so I decided to post it early and just split things up. This way, you get content early and I get something to look forward to. As for making Reader an actual character, I decided that I will give him the name Fractal when I post it to AO3. Anyway, do enjoy! CW: Light violence, mentions of body modification, mentions of suicide. It's just the aperitif.

Respected Yumemizuki Mizuki,

It has been a while since our last outing, and I cannot help but wonder if you hold a grudge for that jovial bit of teasing regarding the recent customer crisis of your bathhouse. I can only assure you I meant no harm, and pray most piously to the Sacred Sakura for your forgiveness. It was my intention all along to motivate you out of your, do not take offence, rather pathetic state of defeatism. Judging by how the issue was resolved, it seems that my ploy found significant success. Wouldn’t you agree?

Regardless, there is a matter of great importance that happens to require our attention. I am sure the situation regarding a certain destructive white fox has reached your adorable, pointy ears - it is indeed the topic of this letter. You may remember that he was rescued quite recently from the open ocean, but until yesterday, he was rather docile in terms of behavior. His sudden outburst worries me greatly; dark bags under his eyes, seemingly relentless night terrors and his words all lead me to the conclusion that his unprecedented episode of mania is related to his dreams. I will share more details at my home - feel free to visit me at your earliest convenience. Haste would be appreciated as the sedatives will wear off in about a day or so; I believe the opportunity to examine him without resistance will significantly speed up our work.

If you indeed hold a grudge towards me, I ask you to do it for him, not for me.

Awaiting your visit,

The Beloved, Beautiful and Powerful Kitsune Guuji of the Narukami Shrine

Yae Miko

That morning, with the warm sun shining down on her, Mizuki was greeted with the sight of soldiers as she approached the Yae estate. The walls around Miko's home towered high but, clearly, proved inefficient at stopping one of her kind. Even if in her heart Mizuki doubted that humans, further slowed by armour, could stop a fox, she acknowledged the reasoning.

The standing officer nodded as she went past him and further into the courtyard towards the Tengu General, exchanging words with her subordinates. Mizuki stepped up, attracting Sara's attention.

“Greetings, Yumemizuki Mizuki.” She bows formally, a gesture returned by the newcomer.

“Good afternoon, general-sama.”

The soldier bows deeply and walks away, leaving the two women alone. Sara glances towards the building and sighs.

“I assume you are here for Y/N? He made a lot of hassle, I'm sure you've heard.” The Tengu crosses her arms. “He sneaked between the house staff and left shamelessly through the front gate in his fox form.”

Mizuki nods. “I see. I wonder, if I may… Isn't it too trivial of an incident for you to get personally involved?”

“Not at all. After all, the fox escaped because of the incompetence of Tenryu guards. It's no insignificant matter as the escapee was a kitsune. As you know, they are highly dangerous.”

The doctor frowns. Wasn't Y/N supposed to be docile? From Miko's previous descriptions he sounded more like a traumatised child than a violent one.

“Was anybody hurt, general?” She asks, looking around for any bandaged or limping soldiers.

“Hm. Well… Sort of.” Sara clears her throat. “During his extraction from a cave by the beach, two officers tried to take him in by force. Y/N resisted, scratching and biting.”

Sara turns and waves a duo of soldiers closer. “See, despite what Yae Miko told me, not only did they escape with their lives, but also with little to no harm done to them. Show her.”

One of the soldiers passes his spear to the other and, saluting his superior, wraps up his sleeve to reveal… Nothing on his left forearm. Mizuki takes his arm and moves her face closer. There are no obvious marks - no blood, no scars, not even redness of the skin. Eventually, her sharp eyes spot two barely noticeable dents. She runs her fingers over them. It's almost as if this wasn't a bite, but a simple poke with two fingers.

“That's… Strange.” She mumbles to herself, seeking out more of these bite marks. There are very few, as if the kitsune was playing, not seriously intending to defend himself. “Did he attack you anywhere else?”

“Mhm. Here, on my face.”

Indeed - Mizuki’s eyes quickly found multiple bruises and red lines across the man's right cheek. Again, however, these didn't seem like an honest attempt at doing harm, even superficial. The markings clearly signaled the fox's hands to be the weapon, but he must have had his nails trimmed so significantly that they lost any hardness in them. Was that even possible?

Mizuki nods. “Thank you, soldiers, general. Is Lady Miko home?”

“She is, waiting for you and keeping an eye on the Yokai. Go in, we shan't keep you here any longer.”

After a brief exchange or parting pleasantries, the women part ways. Mizuki skips up the stairs and places a few polite knocks on the door. Almost instantly it opens, revealing Miko's exhausted, but smiling face. Without a word she moves to the side and motions towards the house’s depths, inviting her guest in. Mizuki enters.

“What's the situation? How does he feel?” She asks, looking around to guess where Miko is leading her.

“Asleep”, comes the answer. “The Naku Weed brew will keep him like this for the next three, maybe four hours. We can work in peace.”

Mizuki lifts her perfectly groomed brow. “Isn't that poisonous?”

“Heh. Not at all, for us kitsune at least. This kind of dose would do irreparable damage to the nervous system of most yokai and humans, but our race is more protected against it.” Miko explains, pressing the knob and pushing open the door to your room. “No need to be quiet, he's out.”

Her eyes land on your unconscious body, your back turned on her. The long, grizzly scars carved into your body assault her eyes. Some are new, staring back at her with recently scabbed crimson, but some seem old - so old that their only remnant is a colourless, white line left on uneven skin. Snow-white bandages snake around your torso, some stained with dark, red blood. There are many scratches and sickly-purple bruises across your arms and torso, likely there from your mad dash of an escape. In places untouched by harm, your skin is clean, pristine, so soft that just looking at it feels like caressing velvet. The hair in your head, as white as the bandages, seems to grow messily around two pointy, fox ears, only barely relaxed due to your state.

“He went through much trouble, I can tell.” Mizuki sits down on one of the chairs facing the bed. “Who is he? A warrior?”

Miko looks down on her hands, tone nonchalant. “Hardly. I'd say that the term… Slave… Would be more descriptive of his life.”

“S-slave…? Yours?” There is surprise, but also worry in the baku’s voice. After all, the wretched act of taking away another's freedom was prohibited for centuries, ever since Makoto came to power. The thought of Miko enslaving one of her kin…

“Not at all. I should feel insulted by the mere notion that I would stoop so low as to chain another, but I'm willing to forgive your ignorance.” Miko's gaze hardens as she looks at her friend. “You don't seem to know the basics of our history.”

“Then, please, enlighten me.”

Miko crosses her arms. “Inazuma was always welcoming towards Yokai, was it not? No matter the age, all of us could find shelter here. Baku, kappa, oni, tengu… Even malicious spirits like umibozu or ningen were left to their devices, provided they did no harm. But to this rule there was an exception. Us, kitsune.”

A sigh escapes her lips. “Before humans settled here, Inazuma was primarily a mess of city-states belonging to Yokai species, constantly warring for influence and territory. Kitsune were, of course, major players. Even a single fox could strike down tens of oni or swat even the most nimble of tengu from the sky. Our power was grand, but so was our thirst for conquest. My kind would have long conquered this land if it weren't for a major burden nature left us with. Kitsune mature slowly, so slowly that replenishing losses took centuries, millennia even. Every war was a blow to our population. Vixen like me bring litters into the world, counting up to seven kits true, but we can't reproduce at will - starvation would quickly set upon us. We knew we were a dwindling race, but we didn't bother changing our disposition.”

The Guuji stands up, starting to walk up and down the room at an even pace as she recounts. “We accumulated hate, curses, hexes. We drowned in evil, but we made light of various nithings and omens. Most of those bad charms were able to be nullified, but the more we turned against our kind, the more powerful our next opponents became. Until one fateful curse befell us.”

Mizuki stays silent, a part of her surprised at Miko's voice growing ever more silent. The next words are spoken with great care, as if to avoid insulting whatever being cast that spell.

“May your daughters forever weep, for your unborn sons and brothers shall repent for your crimes and writhe in agony within the world below. Plague shall befall your fathers and husbands and brothers and sons until only the ninth remains standing, able to raise his arm in the name of evil.” Miko says, staring out the window. “These words, clear of any hatred towards its foxian killers, were spoken by a dying kirin.” She turns, a somber expression on her face. “Indeed, it is as you think. We, kitsune, murdered a kirin. And we were punished for it.”

You stirr in your drug-induced sleep. Miko quickly comes to your side as you turn on your back. She places a hand on your pale, scarred breast.

“That day every male was brought to his knees by an illness unlike we saw before. It acted fast, so fast that most weren't able to even go home, let alone get help. Choking to death on their own blood, clutching their throats with veiny, purple hands, they fell and died on the street, corpses soon littering every corner. They died in agony and panic, no matter who they were - a soldier, a hunter, a doctor, a farmer… All paid for something our entire race was responsible for. Not even children were spared… They… Died the quickest. Newborns died in their cribs while infants spasmed in their mother's wombs. As it said - the majority of our dogs died, leaving the nation’s vixens in maddening grief. Only one in nine males survived, and each was only decades old… Far too young to hold a spear.”

She continues, stroking your hair. “In a matter of years our society plummeted into disarray. From the lack of engineers to keep our cities whole to a dreadful absence of warriors to fend off other, vengeful races. A male birth was an event so grand that entire towns came to greet the kit. We crumbled into dust, gradually pushed back to the brink of extinction, saved only by the coming of Makoto who chose to enforce peace between the Yokai.”

Her hands roam around to yours, her index finger stroking the bruises and scratches around your wrists. “Dogs became previous. They had to be protected, at all costs. We kept them inside, we monitored their every step, rushed to their side with medicine at the smallest cough. Their extinction meant our end - we couldn't allow that. Us vixen took it to heart so much that, over the centuries, males went from priceless treasure to slaves. To goods, like gold or the purest jewels. They were trained from birth to obey, forced into a rigorous training regiment to remain healthy and appealing to their owners, and sold when the time came - for Mora or political favours. Some vixens treated their dogs well, while some enjoyed torturing them for their sick entertainment; but no matter the personal preference, we sent them a clear message - they weren't people.”

Both women remain silent; Mizuki takes in her friend's words while Miko grips your wrists gently, clenching her teeth. For what they did to you, they deserved to be treated likewise. They deserved to be fed from a bowl, to be fed raw meat, to be assaulted whenever their captors wished. To have their clothes, their children, their dignity, their foxhood stripped away.

“They deserve to be treated like animals. For what they did.” She hisses through her teeth, feeling the sting of tears behind her eyes. Helplessness.

“Hm?” Mizuki shakes her head out of deep thought and asks.

“Nevermind.” Milo sighs. “There is a reason, Mizuki, that even the benevolent and kind Makoto could not bare to see what we were doing to them. She ordered our race to cease our barbarity or be gone from this land. The answer to what happened next should be obvious - most of us, noblewomen and mistresses with their entourages, families, entire clans even, left. Some of us stayed. I was, for example, abandoned at just three years of age during the exodus. Those that remained took me in, raised me to be who I am today. Our matron Hakushin was one of the fair few who did not choose to participate in this cruelty and tried to fight back when we were exiled, to wrench at least one male from the claws of her kin. Kitsune Guuji chose to live a childless life of chastity in the name of those crushes in our claws. And she failed.”

“I see. I'm… I can't even imagine what he went through. How old is he?” The baku asks.

“Six hundred years old. Can you picture that? Six centuries of slavery, torture, rape. Six centuries of being fed like a canine, kicked away or being forced upon. Six centuries… Tens of litters, either pried from your hands or never allowed to be there in the first place. A living nightmare. A hell that, for him, was reality.” She raises up and turns back towards Mizuki. “As for what he'd been through, we shall see.”

The woman freezes. What? Surely, Miko wouldn't be willing to metaphorically crowbar his mind open and see inside…

“Oh my, I can tell what's going on inside your head, Mizuki. Are you perhaps thinking I would violate his privacy without proper cause?” Miko turns, her gloomy expression now replaced with a light smirk. “Whoever do you take me for?”

Mizuki stands up and crosses her arms. “Sure, sure. I know you have a reason, but we'll see if it's convincing enough. I never force myself into any mind, and I wouldn't make an exception for you.”

“I understand. Let me tell you, then, why this course of action is not only the best, but also the necessary one. I doubt you understand the true scale of his mind's corruption. If things were, indeed, less severe, I would have just waited for him to rest and taken him to the bath house.”

Miko leans over you and places a hand over your forehead, checking the temperature. It's normal, making her breathe a sigh of relief.

“When I caught up to him and had the rickety old house he hid in surrounded, I went in on my own. I didn't want to scare him, you see. Y/N pounced on me from the ceiling wielding a rusty knife. I shielded myself, making him fly across the room like a rag, collapsing into some shelves. He didn't surrender though - he rose up, coughing, and attacked me with his bare hands. I had to push back yet again, but this time he fell and did not strike again. Instead, I saw tears in his eyes. The words he spoke are why you are here.”

—

“Ugh…” You clutch your chest, trying in vain to stop the blunt ache from spreading across your body. The dust and sand raised by the commotion gets into your lungs - you cough. Her pink hair pierces through the colourless cloud of dust, slowly coming closer.

Your hand desperately pats your closest surroundings in search of a weapon. Nothing.

“Calm down, please.” She speaks, raising both her hands in an attempt to look less threatening. But you know these tricks like the back of your hand. Even the softest of tones can carry the most hateful of words. “I don't want to hurt you.”

“Liar! Do you think I'm… Ah… Stupid enough to believe you?!” You crawl back but soon feel the woodworm-chewed wood of the hut against your skin. There is no way out, but you won't go quietly. “What is this new torture? Did you find my screams and pleads boring enough for you to invade my dreams too? Do you think that you infesting my waking life is not enough?!”

She stops, her hands lowering. You can't see her face through the dust-caused tears, but she looks… disoriented. A soft “what” reaches your ears.

“So that's how it is, Matsui. If you think you can fool me with a simple change of face and name, you're wrong. And if you think you can rape my mind too, you're mistaken! This is my dream, I have the power here! And I can do whatever I want. I can kill you. Or I can kill myself.” You look around, spotting a dusty razor blade, half-buried under the debris. You make sure not to look at it directly. “You may hurt me in the physical world, but you won't hurt me in the only safe haven I have left. Fuck you!”

Leaping forward towards the weapon, you quickly feel your body freeze in mid air. Thin, purple lightning wraps around your wrists, arms, ankles… You're stuck. You wiggle your fingers, desperately trying to reach your way out. Your proof of agency. Your display that you can influence what happens to you, that you’re not a mindless object. This simple tool that will break her toy once and for all.

But regardless of your desires, Miko snares you with her elemental powers, just short of the razor. An ancient painting of helplessness and dread.

“I hate you! I hate you!” You scream, ears folding in rage. “I hate you and everything you stand for!”

Miko doesn’t respond. She simply does not know if any word could convey the feelings brewing in her mind; neither the confusion about the reason for your outburst, nor the astonishment at just what came out of your mouth, are expressible. She observes you as your malnourished body trembles with rage, with hate. Vitriol rolls freely off your tongue. You call her every single insult you know in a hopeless attempt to… Scare her, make her back off, make her react somehow. The silence confuses you… Does she not want to kick you into shutting up? Your futile resistance against the bindings falters, wrath turning into hopeless sadness. Yet again you feel tears rolling down your face.

“H-hate you… W-why…”

Your body is lowered back onto the floor and you immediately fall limp. The world, your past, your future and your present overwhelm your senses. You don’t want this, you never did. You didn’t plead in the face of Gods to let you come into this world, experience neither the pleasures, nor the pains of what surrounds you. You cannot deal with this yourself. You cannot be a hero. You cannot be an example that it’s possible, that you can endure anything and live on. You’re weak.

So weak and witless that you can’t even kill yourself.

You hear her shuffle closer to you. Normally you would move away from her, dodge her touch as best as you could. But this time your hands wrap around her loose sleeves and pull them closer. Before long your face nuzzles into her chest, attempting to hide from the world, even behind the one that hurt you so much. She strokes your hair, softly speaking to you in an attempt to ease your nerves, fruitlessly. Because, sobbing, you realise why you cling onto her so much. Even after she broke your tails, even after she broke your ribs, branded you, starved and humiliated and assaulted and belittled and objectified you.

It’s because you have nobody else.

Only her. Only Matsui.

—

Mizuki listens intently to Miko’s report, her mind already picking apart your words and analysing it for potential basis. Her conclusions come swiftly and decidedly.

“Derealisation”, she says. “Clear signs of post traumatic stress disorders, suicidal ideation and rock-bottom self esteem. Nod-Krai syndrome.”

“I’m unfamiliar with that. What does it mean?” Miko sits by your side, eyes boring into your unconscious face with a vague, hateful expression. She wants to hug you, shelter you from the world like she did just hours ago. But she would much more tear out the throat of Matsui, whoever she was - sky kitsune or a lowly fox, it did not matter.

“Nod-Krai was conquered by the Cryo Archon, who quickly began decisive repressions against the local culture and ethnic identity.” Mizuki explains. “However, thanks to circumstances, local power play and propaganda, the native people of the land became thankful and loyal to their oppressor, the destroyer of altars and the murderer of entire villages. In the same exact way, Y/N seems to cling to Matsui - in this case, believing you’re her in disguise, despite everything she did to him in the past.”

Miko clenches her other hand, keeping the one on your shoulder soft and open. She nods. “I understand.”

There’s a moment of silence before the baku picks up the conversation.

“Would you let me examine him?” She stands up. “I might not be a trained medic, but I think I can pick up some things you might have missed.”

The other woman, having shaken off the gloom of her memory, sends her friend a playfully indignant expression.

“With respect to your own skill, Lady Guuji.”

Miko smiles. “Ah, such compliments. In that case, you may have a look.”

Mizuki nods in thanks and takes the spot just freed by her host. Your defences seemed rather timid - the reason could be simple restraint or mercy, but judging by Miko’s accounts of your mistrust and paranoia, something else was at play. She guides her finger closer to your lips and carefully lifts up your lip, revealing perfectly tended, pristine teeth. Upon a closer look, she notices what exactly stands out among them.

“His canines. They are filed down, see?” She opens your jaw a little, revealing just how even your teeth are, deprived of the four points in the corners. “The ends are imperfectly flat and there are small chips on the inside of each tooth. It could have been done with a simple nail file… I barely see red, meaning they must have been fairly long before.”

Ignoring the chills running down her spine from the mental image for curiosity’s sake, Miko leans in to get a better look. “Isn’t the pulp inside the entire tooth?”

“It is.” Mizuki nods. “But here it has a large circumference, meaning this is the base of the tooth.” Her own teeth hurt as if in solidarity with yours. “By the Shogun, I pray he wasn’t awake for this…”

Miko refrains from speaking to avoid words unbefitting of the Guuji slipping from her lips. The psychologist’s eyes wander down to your hands. The sight of perfectly clipped nails, so much so that they end with not the thinnest of white lines, seems odd to her. Surely after an extensive journey to Narukami Island by sea, and presumably no manicure from Miko, they would have grown even a little bit. She takes your left index finger into her hand and pauses right away. The nail… It’s not tough. To verify her suspicion, she scratches at it with her own fingernails, only to find that they meet no resistance. What’s more, something brown flakes off. Mizuki does this some more and proceeds to gather up the shavings onto her palm, turning around and presenting it to Miko.

“Can you please tell me what they smell like?” She asks. “I touched his fingernails and they flaked off.”

Without question, Miko lifts Mizuki’s hand up to her nose and takes a careful whiff.

“Hm…” She muses. “His scent, sweat and… Leather? Yes. Tanned leather, the sort used for shoes.”

“Then it is just as I had feared. Miko, I think he’s been… Declawed, in a manner of speaking.” She presses your fingers into her arms, as hard as she can, but she feels no toughness digging into her skin.

Miko’s heart begins to beat faster. “Declawed? Like a cat, you say? How is that even possible if he is in human form? Human nails grow all the time…”

“That’s a good question. I’d guess that the techniques they used to subdue dogs became advanced enough to do that. Even if it’s impossibly cruel… It’s impressive.” She shows your hand to Miko. “These painted strips of leather do look like normal fingernails.”

Your caretaker glances at your hand, then back at your peaceful face. It seems like your owners didn’t like their toy having any capability to fight back, or just show displeasure. Like a cat that paws anybody in defence or a dog, biting its cruel owner, you were stripped of your natural defences. She can already imagine it wasn’t enough - judging by how you acted, they tried to remove your very instinct to oppose and protect yourself. If not for this episode of confusion between dreams and the waking world, would she never see you fight back? Never see you refuse, stand your ground, all because whatever you could use was taken away and your mind was washed with cruelty and abuse to be unable to comprehend consent, self-preservation?

Most importantly…

Was this done to you right away, or as punishment…?

“I want to know. I want to see what he experienced.” Miko says, her brow furrowing. “He might not be able to tell me, but I must know. I must understand.”

Mizuki nods. “Give me a moment. We’ll see soon enough.”

In Miko’s gaze, resting on your limp, nailless, tortured hand, there is a promise.

She’s coming for you.

She’ll pick up the pieces and put you back together, however shattered you might be.

Thanks for reading!

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solar-wing · 1 year ago

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⚣ Paralyzed 🕷️

⚣🕷️ A/N → so the yandere/whump fic starring our very own Miguel O'Hara becomes a reality. watching his scenes back in the movie really gets you thinking. Either way definitely will be doing more content with him. WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI | Yandere Miguel O'Hara | Darling Male Reader | Reader is Spiderman in their dimension | Abduction/Kidnapping | Forced Paralysis |Bondage | Emotional & Mental Manipulation |

⚣🕷️ Summary → He should've seen the signs. Should have paid attention to the warnings. If he'd been aware of what he was capable of, he could've been prepared, or at least gotten away safely. Then again, an obsession was something people didn't just give up easily, especially Miguel O'Hara.

⚣🕷️ Words → 2.6K

REBLOGS & replies are greatly appreciated, please! 💛

⚣ ENJOY 🕷️

The signs were clear from the beginning.

All he could think about as his body lay limp was how he missed, or rather ignored every single sign that led to this. Every red flag that was warning him of this moment as the cause of his current paralyzed state kneeled behind him, propping his body up while fastening and securing the scarlet-red web bonds around his body.

“No more running. No more hiding. No volverás a escaparte de mí, cariño.”

The words were not met without merit. From his securely tied legs to the red webs wrapped around his body keeping his arms trapped to his sides, his captor took away any possibility of an escape attempt. He'd lost him once, and he would allow even the slightest chance of losing him again to exist in this dimension or any other for that matter.

It didn't stop him from trying though as he struggled, doing his best to will his body into healing and purging the paralytic toxins from his blood so he could regain his mobility. But, it was no use.

His fate had been set in stone as he was lifted off the ground and placed on the hulking man's shoulder, carried out of the motel room he’d been hiding staying in, the last view of his freedom slipping away farther and farther. Now, it was back to a life of captivity and restrictions all around him, bound to someone he would never love, but who would never not love him.

Had Y/N known Miguel O’Hara, aka Spiderman 2099, would have turned out to be an obsessive and demented mental case, determined to live out his failed love life through him, he'd have thought twice before accepting the Spider's invitation to join his team. Heck, he never would've even showed up to that damn fight with that anomaly on his Earth all that time ago that led to all this.

*13 Months Ago*

Y/N could hear the static noise from the police scanner that was in his book bag, ears perking at the voice coming on the other side detailing an incident or attack at Madison Square Garden, where his dad and other police were working security detail for an event. From the description, it sounded like Kraven, only Y/N couldn't think of a reason why he would attack such a massive event when his usual goal was always to capture him.

However, when Y/N arrived on the scene after getting the police and his dad out of harm's way, he was surprised to see that whoever the Kraven that he knew was not the Kraven attacking the event center. In fact, he wasn't even sure this was Kraven, though he had the same attire. This guy was massive, built like a giant, and dressed like a caveman or Neanderthal.

He apparently shared similar abilities to the hunter he knew, able to track him and move fast, but unlike his usual counterpart, the one in front of him seemed to be stronger. And it would seem he knew him too or at least another version of him if the way he started screaming "Spider! Spider! Spider," over and over again, switching his focus from attacking random attendees and venue staff to now trying to catch him.

Of course, different person, with different tactics, ones Y/N was not used to as he leaped, dodged, and fought with the primate Kraven in the event center, the guy seemingly trying less to straight up kill him and more trying to capture him. Maybe not that different from his Kraven at all.

After some more time and failed attempts, the primate hunter seemed to realize he wouldn't be able to catch him or his web the way he was trying and instead changed tactics, making a break for the door. Panicking at the thought of this guy getting loose in his city, he without thinking rationally went after him only to fall right into hunter's trap when he found himself getting tackled into a wall after the guy jumped out of his hiding spot when he realized his lure worked.

His mind was fuzzy as the hunter held him against the wall by his neck, his feet not touching the ground. He was struggling to breathe and was trying to free his wrists from the tight grip they were being held in.

"Caught you, Spider," the hunter chuckled, squeezing tighter, his large fingers digging into the flesh of his neck as he lifted him off the wall and held him in the air. Y/N's eyes were wide with fear, his hands holding on the wrists of the hunter as he struggled to breathe and keep himself up.

Suddenly, he was over the hunter's shoulder, his vision blurry from the lack of oxygen and the rapid movement.

"Let me go!" He heard a raspy voice shout, and it took him a minute to register that it was his own. He was kicking and fighting, but the hunter held him tightly, not allowing him any chance of escape.

The hunter walked slowly through the empty hallways of the arena as the sound of police sirens rang outside, seemingly overwhelmed by all the noises around him but still looking for something. "Den. Home. This not home," he grumbled, his voice deep and low.

"No kidding," He mumbled, continuing his struggle as he was carried.

The hunter's hand gripped the back of his knees, squeezing slightly in warning. "Find den. Go home."

When they made it to the stadium center, Kraven stood at the top of a staircase looking around while the Spider looked for a way out. While he was looking, he found himself abruptly, on the ground and no longer being held by the hunter, who seemed to be having some uncontrollable, tweaking moment.

Weird, but convenient until the Hunter grabbed him again before he could web away to a safe distance. Suddenly, just behind where they came from, something bright and wide appeared in the middle of the path, swirling with colors, like a portal.

"What the..." He didn't get a chance to finish before the hunter turned around to also observe the phenomenon, a loud whirring coming from it before a red and blue figure suddenly shot out of the portal, tackling the primate Kraven, causing him to drop the Spider again.

Serves him right.

When Y/N made his way down to the floor, he came across his savior, standing up from the ground with a digital cape that dematerialized as he stood up to his full height. His head turned slightly to the approaching Spiderwing behind him cautiously.

"Okay, weird and spontaneous entrance aside, and thanks for the save, but who the heck are you?" Y/N asked.

"Classified," the man, Miguel said, his voice was gruff, and his demeanor overly serious and imposing.

Y/N held a hand to his chin, analyzing the man before him, "Blue Assassin?"

"No," the man replied.

"The Red Caped Crusader?"

"No, I'm–"

"Attitude Dracula?"

"No, stop–"

"Cyber Luchador?"

"No, I'm from a different dimension," Miguel interrupted, his irritation growing.

"A different dimension?" Y/N feigned shock, "Yeah, that's not as shocking as you think it is, big guy."

Miguel raised an eyebrow, "I'm sorry, what? How are you not freaked out by this? I just came out of a dimensional portal in the middle of a public arena and you're not surprised?"

"Dude, I got bit by a radioactive spider, got superhuman abilities, and fight crazy idiots on a regular basis who come up with all sorts of hair-brained schemes. Plus, I watch a ridiculous amount of SCI-FI and supernatural shows and movies. Different dimensions are really not as plot-twisting as you think it is. Now, back to the important questions...Emo Daffy?"

"Not funny," The man interjected, "My name is Miguel O'Hara, also known as Spiderman in my dimension like you are in yours."

"So, not Emo Daffy then? Huh, that name would've suited better," Y/N smirked, earning a glare from Miguel as he looked him over, noticing the watch on his wrist, "Oh, nice watch. That how you dimension hop?" He asked, reaching for the watch.

"It's much cooler than a watch," Miguel replied, reaching his wrist back to keep the smaller Spider at bay.

"Yikes, sensitive much? Well, nice to meet you, Miguel. But, there's a confused and brutish caveman hunter probably stomping around, that I should get back to dealing with, so if you don't mind," He pointed toward the direction they came from.

"From what I saw before I came in, better you stay out of the way.. I'll take it from here," Miguel responded, not so subtly shading him for his earlier 'position' with the hunter, who speaking of, was slowly creeping up behind the red-and-blue masked Spider.

"No problem, knock yourself out," Y/N said leaning to the side.

"Huh, why are you saying it like that?"

Y/N stepped to the side as a very pissed-off hunter charged and tackled him from behind, chuckling a little when Miguel yelled at him for not being funny before going to help.

With the added backup now (not that he needed it), Y/N could better focus his attacks now that the hunter's full attention was on him. And since his sudden new partner seemed to know more about this than he did, he got a little more context.

This version of Kraven was from a dimension where they indeed still lived like primates or cavemen, but still had their own developed societies. That world's version of Spiderman was this Kraven's target, that part remained consistent.

However, the reasons he was trying to capture the Spider may have been a little different than what Y/N was expecting. Suddenly, he found himself a bit more grateful for Emo Daffy's appearance.

But, despite their initial introduction, the two Spiders were able to work well together, and with this Kraven having no experience against their weapons and abilities, especially Miguel's, they were able to take him down fairly quickly. Y/N had missed the part where the Spiderman from 2099 used a more special ability to incapacitate the hunter, making it easier to handle him since he couldn't move.

After Miguel had properly secured the hunter, he used the same watch Y/N was ogling earlier to open another portal. Before he left, he delivered some unexpected news to the Earth-6998 Spider.

"Well, that's that. Nice working with you, Spider. Try not to almost get captured next time," he said, in a sarcastic tone.

"Can't help it that I'm such a prize in their eyes," Y/N said.

Despite his joking tone, an air of suspense could be felt by the smaller Spider. Y/N couldn't tell due to the mask, but there was a quick, almost fleeting moment where he could feel Miguel's gaze on him, staring him down. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

"Yeah, you are," he finally said.

Though, it was definitely plausible that he could've said that in a completely unserious, sarcastic manner as he'd been doing the entire time they'd spent fighting the hunter who was currently hanging over his shoulder (ironic), it didn't feel like it. There was something else there, a hint of emotion that Y/N couldn't pinpoint.

"Yeah, we'll see you around, I guess. Thanks for the help," Y/N said.

"Hold on," the older Spider interjected, "I know you just met me, but have you ever wondered exactly how many others like you are out there?"

"Like me? You mean other spiders? I mean, yeah sure. Pretty sure everyone has had that thought at some point," the younger man joked, "What's your point?"

Hence, the beginning of a new journey in the young Spiderwing's life, and the first warning sign ignored.

Miguel decided to take the scenic route home, wanting to enjoy the relieving feeling of finally having his love back in his arms safe. There was nothing wrong with him wanting to relish in his victory a little.

He did have to bite him again when Y/N's healing had managed to rid enough of his venom from his blood, giving him enough control back over his body to fight against his hold. Despite the warnings Miguel tried to give him, Y/N wouldn't listen, still trying to free himself, even if it wouldn't accomplish anything due to his restrained state.

And while it did hurt him to see his love fighting so hard to get away from him, Miguel couldn't deny the pleasure he got from forcing him into defeat. When the young Spider knocked himself a little too hard into the side of Miguel's head, the Earth-982 reveled in sick joy grabbing his prize off the ground, pressing him against the brick surface, and forcing his head to the side so he could sink his venomous fangs into the delicate skin once more.

He only injected a small dose, not wanting to leave any permanent effects on him, but he enjoyed the feeling of the smaller body squirming against his own until it eventually went limp once more. The sounds of his moans and whines as he bit and kissed his skin, tasting his flesh, was a delicious symphony to his ears.

"If I were you Y/N, I would quit it with the defiant behavior and escape attempts. I may have been easy on you since I was so relieved at finding you safe, but don't think I'm above handling you with more forceful methods. Especially considering my unaddressed grief from your long disappearance. All that to say, no me presiones, cariño," Miguel whispered into his ear, a threat and a promise.

Miguel's elongated claws pressed into the helpless Spider's body, eliciting more whimpers from the paralyzed man. Even in his powerless state, the brawny Latino could feel the distress and panic from the smaller Spider, which accomplished nothing but turning him on.

He could've taken him right there in that alley. Could've forced him on his knees and fucked his mouth, or pressed his face against the wall and taken him from behind, his cries muffled against the cold bricks, the fabric of his suit torn to expose parts of his body from their earlier scuffle in his motel room.

He was already half-hard in his suit, his member twitching and aching to be released, missing the tight heat of his love's body. But, he was a patient man. He could wait until the time was right.

Miguel looked down into the orbs staring up at him in hatred and fear, feeling his gut twist unpleasantly at the sight. He do something about that in the future, vowing to earn his love's affection and respect, to make him happy, and to show him that the life he wanted to give him was worth the freedom and choices taken away.

But, for now, he was content to accept the docile and forced submission from the Spider, his expression in defeat but the defiant spirit in his eyes still there. He'd take care of that too in time.

Y/N stared up at the man towering above him, truly seeing him as the monster and villain that he hid from everyone around him. This was the real Miguel O'Hara, a sight that lived in his nightmares before and would continue to with this new memory burned into his mind for ages to come.

"Let's go, mi amor,” Miguel said, hoisting the paralyzed man onto his shoulder once more, "Nunca volverás a estar lejos de mí, mi amor."

☀️ | Miguel O'Hara/Spiderman 2099 | ☀️

☀️ | Masterlists | ☀️

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t3ddyd0ll · 3 days ago

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Yandere!Cult Leader x reader

summary: viktor stalking reader in their room

. . .

Viktor's eyes scan your image, a lazy and slow gaze as to capture each detail. Seeing you is just as fulfilling as a feast; it enriches his mind the same way food enriches the soul. If he could digest you, if he could consume you to the core- make you one and the same as him- he would. But that would mean no more of this.

This, this, precious this.

You sit at your desk mending a shirt for someone in the town. Your hands move with meticulous attention, eyes nearly unblinking with the amount of focus pouring into the work. You want to do it right, you want to do it pretty, you want them to be happy. The world around you has hushed, and nothing else truly matters in this moment except for the stitches you're placing in the cloth.

Even so, Viktor keeps his breaths so quiet, his lungs may as well have gone still. His eyes haven't left you since the moment he saw you alone, and he too has hushed the world surrounding to enjoy this precious moment.

He watches your shoulders move with each breath you take. He pictures your lungs filling up with air, the alveoli blowing up like balloons inside the organs and sending oxygen back to the heart with blood.

He sees your fingers pinch the needle and fabric, swooping the needle through, pulling thread, starting again. Through your skin he can see the tendons, watching as they pull against bone and produce your desired movement. He pictures cutting open your hand to pull on them himself. To puppet is to love.

Viktor steps inside the room, his movements unheard by your ears. In his mind's eye he can see the eardrum, and the little bones inside your skull that assist in your hearing. He can see the nerve that connects from the temporal region of your brain to the inner ear, seeing the electrical impulses with each noise you make. The fact that only you and him can hear the dragging of your thread inside the cloth- but no one else can- makes him feel closer to you.

He steps closer. He can picture driving a knife through your spine, plunging into your beating heart. Blood that runs from heart to lungs, lungs to heart, heart to body, spilling out across the desk and into his hands. He can taste it. He can smell it. Copper and sweetness. Bleach and laundry detergent that will wash it all away.

He draws an audible breath and clears his throat to catch your attention. You stir, slightly startled, but happy to see him. Teeth, gums, crinkled eyes- how sweet your smile is.

"Hi Viktor," you greet him.

"Hello, my dear... Who's this for?"

"Marcus," you reply, inviting him to sit with you by pulling out an extra chair. He sits beside you, observing your hands. "What's on your mind?"

Viktor's gaze drags all the way up your arm and shoulder, to your neck and jaw before landing on your eyes. He can only hold eye contact for a few moments at a time, so it's soon back to your task.

"Oh, just you.." he says simply, and prompts you to speak about your own thoughts instead.

#yandere cult leader #yanblr #yancore #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere writing #yandere imagines #yandere ocs #yandere headcanons #whumper x whumpee #ending is a little weird to me but i wanted to write abt vikky

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loverofwhump216 · 9 days ago

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New story now up on AO3

Series: How To Train Your Dragon

Title: The Prisoner

Characters: Hiccup, Astrid, Toothless

Summary: While recovering from an injury received during a fight, Hiccup wakes up to find a Hunter standing over him, axe raised.

If you read, please consider dropping a review letting me know what you think. I enjoy getting feedback.

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hunterjumperhoe · 7 months ago

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On My Unhinged Mode

Imagine: Hybrid!Whumpee Rescued By Nikto... Whumpee had vocal chords removed (like Beagles in labs) Whumpee is now trauma bonded to Nikto for life and Nikto has a pet who follows his every move.

#pet whump #whump #whump writing #whumpee #cod modern warfare #cod #cod mw2 #call of duty #call of duty nikto #cod nikto #nikto cod #mwii nikto #nikto x reader #nikto #hybrid whumpee #hybrid whump #hybrid cod

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theotherwoman-emily · 9 months ago

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Headphones Advised 🎧

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unhonest-iago · 8 months ago

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Alpha! Caretaker sitting outside Omega! Whumpee’s nest. Scenting all the objects their omega had offered up to them. The omega in whumpee is screaming at them to let the alpha in their nest but whumpee is still overly protective of the space. It was the one area whumper would never cross so even now, it was an area of refuge. That and they were calming down from an earlier panic attack.

Caretaker can sense the conflict waging on in their mind, so they continue sitting just outside the perimeter of the nest. Holding one of whumpee’s hands in their lap, trailing a thumb over the skin. And eventually, whumpee feels the overwhelming desire to be held. Squeezing their intertwined hand to get the Alpha’s attention. ‘C’mere.’

‘You sure, hun?’ Caretaker double-checks, making sure that’s what they want. ‘Mhm,’ the omega in them is waiting with bated breath. A sort of anxious excitement. ‘Okay,’ they slowly crawl into the nest, situating themselves behind whumpee and wrapping their arms around them. Listening as they emit content chuffs as the alpha pushes out a wave of relaxed pheromones.

‘Get some sleep, love.’

#iago writes #not x reader #whump writing #whump scenario #whumpblr #whump #whumpee x caretaker #caretaker #whumpee #a/b/o whump #a/b/o #omegaverse #a/b/o dynamics

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defire · 11 months ago

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Guys who wants to share your top 5 whump tropes?

Mine are

Defiant whumpee

Living weapon

Sadistic whumper

Gang whump

Ptsd

#whump writing #whumpblr #whump prompt #defiant whumpee #whump community #whump readers #reblog game

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qin-qin16 · 1 year ago

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cw: Cross x Reader, dog coded Cross, hurt/comfort, scars, it's about trust and hands, a bit of a whump story, platonic relationship.

note: this is a continuation of this part!

Cross disliked physical contact. It was uncomfortable not knowing the intentions of people who lightly touched him, whether with a friendly pat on the back or a polite hand gesture. To Cross, all of these were a potential punch in the stomach, a slap on the neck, or even a kick in the ribs. It was unpredictable; a hand that caressed him one moment could scratch him the next - a reminder that trusting anyone was risky.

However, something changed. Your hand changed. What was once immaculate, pristine from any wound that might be exposed to the world, was now marred by Cross's teeth. A horrible, ugly mark, an eternal scar of his rage. And yet, despite this hateful scar on your hand, you still reached out to him. You extended your fragile, wounded hand not as a reminder of what he had done, but as a pledge of trust—a pledge he vowed to honor.

Every time you reached out your hand, he accepted it; so delicately that it felt more like an approach than a touch. Occasionally, his fingers - phalanges as sharp as his canines - would scratch you gently, and then he would pull away. Your hands engaged in this timid yet reciprocal dance.

You didn't mind much; aware of Cross's distrust and social challenges, you didn't mind waiting for him, always allowing him to decide whether to grasp your hand or not, whether to draw near or retreat.

Like a traumatized dog, you knew these choices were the last vestiges of freedom Cross had over himself.

#divider by #@plutism #dog traits #whumpee #dog coded cross #cross sans #cross x reader #sans #undertale #sans x reader #qinqin stuff 💖

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chrysalis-thestateofchange · 3 months ago

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＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙* ── | “Snapped” | ── *•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*＊

Characters // Atlas (he/him), Wren (they/them)

Atlas surveys the streets below, sure he must be dreaming.

Taking up the entire back wall of the hotel room is a long, shiny floor-to-ceiling window.

A window.

He can’t remember the last time he’d seen one. The warehouse, despite its many floors and levels, didn’t have any. Not ones that led outside, anyway. And definitely not ones as grand as this one. It was nothing but the same steel-gray walls along every hallway, stretching on endlessly, inescapable no matter what room you turned into. His bedroom had been like that too: four bare, gray walls, not a single window in sight.

But here — here he can see it all.

The darkened streets stretch out below him, bustling with cars and people. It isn’t as crowded here as it had been when he’d first drove with Wren this morning, less people around to watch. Still… It’s beautiful.

Outside. He can really see outside.

Wren’s van sits out in front of them in the parking lot, the pale white of the paint glistening from the streetlight overhead. Wren had slid into the parking lot only fifteen minutes prior, flashing a sleek credit card in his direction, proclaiming it was for “emergencies only”, before leading him inside the hotel. It’s a nicer place than the rest of the buildings he’s seen today — much cleaner than the McDonalds — with shiny elevators and smooth marble floors, a few people bustling around in the hallways; kids and adults alike, smiling and laughing with each other.

Now settled in their hotel room, he can spot a few men gathered on the corner of the street, little wisps of smoke drifting up into the night air around them from their cigarettes. They’re laughing loudly, throwing their heads back, mouths spread out in a grin. Atlas wonders what it’s like, to laugh like that.

He stands there in silence, simply taking it all in, eyes flickering towards every person that passes by on the street, to every car in the distance. They are all but blurs of colour in the darkness of the night, the illumination of streetlights casting a dull glow over everything, the lights from nearby shops slowly starting to flicker off as the day falls to a close.

Atlas is pulled away from the serene view at Wren’s eyes on him.

They look up at him from their spot criss-crossed on the floor, face curious as he meets their gaze. They pat the spot beside them, expectantly waiting for him to sit.

He hesitates for a moment, scanning their expression for any hint of hostility. He still isn’t sure what to think of them. They’re brash and rude — not to mention stupid — but then again, they’d genuinely tried to help him, hadn’t they? Slowly, he obliges, taking the seat next to them.

Wren fixes their gaze back onto the street below, pressing their forehead into the glass. “How old are you?”

Atlas bristles at the question. “You first.”

All day they’d been asking things like this, trying to… get information out of him. He guesses it’s what anyone would do, he is a practical stranger, after all. But a part of him can’t help but feel on guard at it. He isn’t supposed to tell people about himself, isn’t supposed to give anything away. Especially to someone from outside of Eden. Though, he guesses, he isn’t a part of Eden anymore either, is he? Those rules don’t apply to him anymore.

Not after he left them.

Wren sighs, but for once doesn’t push, instead opting for answering his deflection. “Fine asshole. I’m fourteen.”

Atlas falls quiet at their answer, weighing his options. Eden’s rules don’t technically apply to him anymore, but that doesn’t mean he really cares about Wren, either. It isn’t like they’ve ever been nice to him before now. Still, it isn’t like he’s going to gain anything from being so prudent with them. And telling them his age can’t be that bad….

“I’m fifteen.” He relents.

Their head jerks towards him at his answer, eyes going wide in shock as they mumble, “You’re just a kid.”

Atlas’ gaze doesn’t leave the window, his face still a perfect mask of calm, the only movement coming from him being his eyes as they scan the different buildings outside. “I’m older than you.” He points out.

Wren clicks their tongue loudly and shrugs, tearing their face away from the window again to glance at him. “Yeah. I’m a kid too.”

Atlas focuses on a particular car — a deep maroon in colour, with a dent in the side, little chips along the paint. He places all his attention on it, taking nice, even breaths, holding back his urge to scream at them. He’s never felt so miserable, so helplessly alone, in his entire life. “My age doesn’t matter.” He responds, voice clipped. So just shut the fuck up already.

Wren rolls their eyes, huffing out a breath of frustration. “Yeah. Did they tell you that too? Did they tell you it doesn’t matter that you’re a literal kid?”

Atlas stiffens. “That’s none of your concern.”

Wren sighs and leans back on their hands, still staring out the window. “Fine, whatever.” They go silent for a long moment before a thought suddenly occurs to them. “What’s your name? Do you have a name?” They ask, glancing back towards him.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” He says coldly, unable to hold the exasperation from leaking into his voice. Wren seems to have that sort of effect on him; he never feels quite so defensive or angry as he does when he’s around them.

Wren huffs, sagging forwards and resting their forehead upon the glass once again. They seem unable to sit still for more than a minute, constantly fidgeting and moving around. Atlas has never found something quite so irritating. “Look, I know you don’t like me. That’s fine. But we can’t do anything unless you trust me a little. At least enough to give me your name.”

“I don’t need to give you anything.” Atlas replies rigidly. He decides that he in fact isn’t going to tell them anything. He’s out of Eden now, so that means he can choose. There are no rules against that, not anymore. And Wren is definitely not his superior. He likes it better this way. That way they can’t use anything against him. That way he still has the slight upper hand.

Wren lets out a long, hard sigh, rocking for a minute before flopping all the way back, lying flat on the scratchy carpet. “Okay. Whatever.” They mumble, closing their eyes.

Atlas doesn’t move.

Wren thumps their feet on the floor rhythmically, disturbing Atlas’ peace. “Fine, I don’t need to know your name. Do you have a favourite colour?” They ask, glancing towards his hair, a shaggy mullet with burgundy streaks littering throughout it. “Is it red?”

“Is yours blue?” Atlas counters, still annoyingly refusing to answer any of their questions. He can’t stand it — can’t stand sitting here, with them, can’t stand their constant chattering. He wants to be at the warehouse, with Cato, with Ira; wants to be in his dorm room, curled up on his cozy bed. Wants to be training, the familiar feeling of his staff in his hands, strength surging through his core. He wants to be at home.

You left that, remember? He chides himself. That isn’t your home, not anymore.

“Very clever. Did you figure that all on your own?” Wren asks, pulling him from his thoughts.

“It doesn’t take a genius.” He grunts, not once glancing toward them to meet their gaze.

“Sarcasm.” They mutter. “You dye it yourself?” They gesture vaguely towards his hair.

Atlas answers with nothing but a curt nod, hand subconsciously raising to fiddle with his hair, a dark red strand twirling around his fingers.

“Me too. I’ve spent too much money on box dye.”

Atlas hums. He still remembers with perfect clarity the first time Ira came over with box dye and helped him with his hair — almost as if it was just yesterday.

He had been twelve. She’d swung into his dorm room with a small grin, waving the box around like it was pure gold. It had been, to him. He remembers, up until then, he’d barely even had belongings to himself. No books beside his textbooks, no notebooks or paper besides the ones supplied to him for his lessons. No souvenirs, no nothing. His room had genuinely been bare. Just a bed and a small desk pushed into the corner. Wren had commented on the absolute emptiness of his room, but it was nothing compared to back then.

So when Ira had offered to dye his hair, he’d been over-the-moon. For as long as he could remember, her hair was always done up in some interesting way. A streak of colour, or ombré, or jaggedly cut in a way that Atlas wished he could pull off. He remembers how excitement coursed through his bones as she helped him chop off his ordinary, plain black locks for the shaggy mullet that he then kept for the past three years. That pure, child-like excitement… it was the best feeling in the entire world.

Wren doesn’t take his lack of a response as a sign he isn’t in the mood for a conversation, simply continuing to talk. They might as well be talking to themself, for all that it matters. “The first time I dyed my hair, I bleached it without instructions. It was so bad, it started falling out of my head.”

Atlas still doesn’t react, simply winding his hair around his finger, over and over and over again. Its soothing, almost. Something to focus on.

Wren continues. “I had a big bald spot on the side of my head for the entire first part of 6th grade. My mom bought me this hair growth stuff for bald guys. Didn’t work at all.”

Atlas doesn’t give them a second of his attention. He stares out the window, watching out into the streets below, half-forgetting to blink. He wants to be out on those streets, walking. Free. It has never been a thought he admitted — not in full extent — but out of everything in the entire universe, that has always been his dream. To go out, by himself, no watchful eye of his commander or the judgemental gaze of a scrawny insufferable rebel. Just him and the quiet of the night, the chill of the breeze cooling the back of his neck. Calm, contented peace.

Wren’s gaze doesn’t leave him as they sit up, scooting closer to his side. “Hey…?” They ask, leaning over slightly and waving their hand in front of his face.

“Hm?” Atlas hums, his piercing gaze falling upon them. This is the closest they’ve dared get to him, only inches apart. “What is it?”

Wren furrows their brows at him. “You went all zombie on me.”

“I was listening.” Atlas says dismissively. What he really wants to say to them is “shut up, I do not want to talk to you right now, or ever, for that matter”, but he holds his tongue. He wants to do many things — shove Wren away from him, scream at them, beat their annoying face until it’s black and blue, run away from them and never come back — but that does not mean that he can actually do them. He’s stuck with Wren, as much as he hates it, so the best he can do is try to tolerate them. For now.

Wren frowns but shrugs, brushing past it. “Okay.” They say, leaning away to resume their position of resting their forehead against the window, letting out a heavy exhale as they do so. “Is there anything you want to know about me?”

Atlas focuses his attention back upon the window, watching outside in silence for a second. If he was to be honest, he’d say that he really couldn’t care less if Wren told him anything about themself. But he knows that’s not what they want to hear. “Whatever you would like to tell me.” He says with the slightest of shrugs. We are not friends. He thinks. And we will never be friends. There’s nothing you can do or say that will ever change my mind on that.

Wren rolls their eyes with a loud and dramatic groan. “That’s not how this works. I’ve told you plenty and you won’t even respond.” They say, shooting him a scowl.

Atlas hums. “What would you like me to say?” There’s a reason I didn’t answer, you dunce.

“I dunno man. Usually you’re supposed to acknowledge what someone’s saying.” They say with another loud huff. “Whatever, you get a free pass because you got brainwashed.”

Don’t fucking speak to me like that.

“I’m not brainwashed.” Atlas mutters, side-eying them.

Wren clicks their tongue and scoffs. “I’m not saying it’s your fault or anything, but you kind of are man.”

Atlas scowls. You’re a naive, stupid child that thinks they know everything because they managed to steal a few fucking files. You’ll never amount to even a sliver of what I am right now, even if you spent your entire life trying. Pull your head out of your fucking ass.

“You don’t know anything about me. Stop acting like you do.”

Atlas’ words only cause Wren to shrug. “I mean, I knew a lot more than you.” They point out matter-of-factly.

Atlas is so sick of Wren’s constant comments, their know-all attitude. Their audacity. All he’s had to deal with this entire day is their snarky quips, poking and prodding, rubbing salt into his sore wounds.

He should’ve known better. They’re a rebel, after all. Rebels are cruel, apathetic. Why would they care about what he’s lost, what he’s sacrificed, leaving with them? A homeless middle schooler with a clunky, dirty van that barely operates on its own. And he’s supposed to just be grateful, accept their treatment with the same grace he always holds.

They don’t have a single clue about what his life was like, the hardship and struggles he’s had to endure. They don’t know how much he gave away, just to join their shitty little grandiose delusion of “revolution”. They make him sick.

Fuck, I’m so tired.

He gives them a hard glare. “No, you didn’t.”

Wren narrows their eyes at him, giving him a skeptical glance before sighing. “What-ever.”

This finally snaps Atlas’ resolve.

It isn’t their dismissal that does it, more an accumulation of the last day. He should know better than this, should know better than to snap at them like he does, but suddenly the burning anger that has been boiling, slow and steady, in his chest all day is exploding out of him, hot as flames. Unrestrained.

“I hate you.” He spits, whipping around to glare down at them with pure hatred shining in his eyes. “At least Eden treated me kindly. At least I belonged.” His voice shakes, emotion slipping through in a way it hasn’t in — he doesn’t even know how long. Years? A decade? Forever? “At least I wasn’t stuck with an insolent child.”

His words come out quick and sharp, a part of him almost too scared to even say them. He can’t remember ever speaking out against someone in his entire life. He isn’t supposed to — it’s against the rules. He’s supposed to keep his feelings in check; a soldier who can’t keep control over themself is as good to Eden as a ticking time bomb. Soldiers are polite. Soldiers are obedient. Soldiers don’t voice their own opinions. Soldiers don’t have opinions — don’t have emotions. For all of his life, he has been this: The perfect soldier.

But what had that gotten him in the end?

“You don’t know anything about what it was like.” He says coldly. He has to admit to himself, actually voicing what he’s been thinking the entire day…. It feels kind of good.

Wren’s eyes widen slightly, a look of shock that gives Atlas the slightest hint of satisfaction evident on their features. They slowly tilt their head up to look at him again, the words hanging lowly in the air between them, turning the atmosphere thick with tension.

Finally, Wren breaks the dreadful silence. “Yeah, I get it.” They say, pausing for a moment, as if they were for once going to put in a sliver of thought before they spit out some crude insult at him. “I don’t expect you to like me. And I don’t really care if you do.”

Their face is calm, voice even as they speak. It feels as if they are addressing an explosive child, not a boy who has spent the last fifteen years of his life carefully pushing down his true feelings for what matters, who always does what he’s told without questions, who works and works and works. Who doesn’t know what it’s like to experience true relaxation — true peace.

“I may not know what it was like,” they say, the slightest bit of exasperation in their voice. “But I know what would’ve happened if you stayed.”

It’s like a slap to the face. Atlas pales, the thought of the files — the videos; the horrific images of torture, torture that he would’ve endured, torture that Eden had been doing on its own soldiers for years — causing his mouth to instantly snap shut.

The smug feeling dissipates just as fast as it comes. There is no rebuttal to their statement. Although he never would admit to it, both he and Wren know that they are right. What had been waiting for him after today….

He doesn’t even want to think about it.

In one swift movement, Atlas jumps to his feet. His hands are shaking as he roughly turns on his heel, stalking out of the room and making a beeline for the bathroom. For the first time in his life, he feels the careful control he has over his emotions slip through his fingers, anger burning in his chest fiery hot, flushing his cheeks red.

He fucking hates it here.

The door slams behind him with a sharp bang.

He is shaking as he enters the bathroom, his entire body trembling, the weight he’s been holding upon his shoulders for too long finally cracking away at his perfectly poised exterior, slipping him under the waves of unconstrained emotions he has tried so hard to dull. His control is dissipating faster than he can manage, the short rapid breaths through his nose doing nothing to cool the fury within him.

The stress of the past 24 hours — no, the entire past month — have taken their hold on him, sending him spiraling down a well of no return. He is untethered, boundless, suffocating in the infinite unknown of space. And there is not that usual rough calloused hand to pull him back to safety, reassurances of warmth and belonging easing him back to reality.

His reflection glares back at him, only inches away. The boy in the mirror is a shameful thing, cheeks all blotchy and red, flushed by his rage; eyes glassy and tinged with tears, squinting with a determined will to force them back; his chest is heaving, uncontrollable gasps slipping from his lips.

He hates it.

He hates all of it. He hates the perfectly tidy bathroom, too similar to Eden, with its sparse toiletries, carefully unordinary, and pale gray walls, no decorations adorning them. Too similar to what he left behind — what he’s missing so desperately.

He hates not knowing what he’s supposed to do, how he’s supposed to act. Before today he had every single second in every single minute carefully and methodically planned out, his whole future set in stone, just waiting for him to arrive. And now he is lost, his plans of a picture-perfect future set aflame, all notions of normalcy or structure crumbling to ash with it. He is a nobody, with nothing to his name.

Useless. He’s fucking useless.

He hates these new emotions swirling up inside of him. He hates being so fucking angry, every breath of air igniting his insides, erasing this perfect persona he has crafted so delicately for himself. He hates this new life, hates this stupid smartass kid who thinks they know better than he does, thinks they’re somehow greater and better because they didn’t get roped up into a corporation like Eden, didn’t fall for the sweet-as-honey lies, the manipulated comforts. He hates living in a van, hates having no home.

But most of all….

He hates himself.

· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ───────── · ·

“I was gonna shower, asshole.”

Wren stares at the closed bathroom door with a scowl. The boy has shut himself in there and it looks like he’s not going to come out anytime soon. Great. Just what they needed.

They sigh, standing up and flopping back onto the bed with a groan, their body limp. The mattress bounces underneath their weight, creaking in rhythm. The blankets are smooth, though not cozy and gentle like the ones they have back at home, impossibly soft to the touch. But they’ll do, much more comforting than their worn-down sleeping bag rolled up in the van, which is much overdue for a wash.

They stare up at the ceiling, eyes bleary from exhaustion. It is in this quietness, a sort of rest washing over them for the first time all day without the boy’s tense presence to bother them, that the realization dawns on them that they haven’t really slept properly at all in weeks. At Eden they were on constant alert, left with the choice of camping out in their van half a mile off-grounds or cloaking themself somewhere ambiguous, body forced into a small, impossibly cramped crawl space no one would think to search. And this morning they woke up far too early for their own liking, the boy’s piercing violet gaze disrupting their dreams.

They groan, turning their head towards the bathroom door. The water isn’t even running. “Hey,” they call out. “You gonna shower? Or can I?”

They wait and the air is left brimming with tension as silence stretches out, no response coming from the other side of the door. “Hello?”

The sound of slight shuffling is the only noise they can catch.

They frown, sliding off the bed and going to stand in front of the door; their eyebrows furrowed, mouth pulled taut. “Dude, you good?” They ask, voice louder this time, fist brought down in a light knock.

An explosion of fury booms from behind the door, ripping the next words from Wren’s tongue.

“SHUT UP!” The boy screams, unbridled rage cracking his voice. It is deafening, hitting Wren with a truckload of emotion that has evidently been pushed down for far longer than he’s capable of withstanding. It's a violent kind of rage, one that’s dangerous to get caught up in. A stark contrast to the quiet and polite attitude from before — Wren is almost unsure if it came from him. “FUCKING LEAVE ME ALONE.”

Wren flinches slightly at his outburst, the anger coming unexpected. Their eyes are wide and they are still for a moment, lips parted slightly. Shit.

With a sigh, they turn away from the door. If he wanted to be left alone, then Wren would leave him alone. That bursting, uncontrollable anger is one they are all too familiar with. It’s no use in trying to comfort him, they’ve never been very good at that anyway. They’re sure their presence is only making his breakdown worse.

They turn and shuffle through their bag, pulling out a pair of large sweatpants and a t-shirt. They carry it to the door before dropping it in front of it wordlessly, and returning to sit on the bed.

The bathroom is quiet for a second, so quiet that Wren thinks the boy has calmed down. They listen out for any further sound, and it’s at that moment that a large crash cuts through their hotel room. There’s a deafening bang, the sound of smashing glass shattering from behind the closed door. Wren gasps as a series of muffled thumps follow, clattering and clanging alerting them of the destruction reigned upon the bathroom.

The sound of running water hisses from the tap and Wren grimaces, wiping at their face, their exhaustion settling in. They kick off their shoes, curling up under the covers. This should have been expected.

They can shower tomorrow.

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thewhumpcaretaker · 1 year ago

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ok ok ok your sub! john drabbles actually gave me the best idea. tattoo artist x john wick

tattoo artist reader is there to comfort him and make sure he’s okay and doesn’t pass out esp if it’s his first tattoo.

also writing this made me remember a fic i read that’s not finished but breaks my heart

https://archiveofourown.org/works/21060659/chapters/50100092 if you want to read 🖤

Thank you so much for this ask!! I've been thinking about this idea for a while actually. There was another ask about this a long time ago, maybe on my JohnWickCaretaker blog? I can't find that one, but if that was also you, then thanks a second time. Also, yaaaaay, fic recommendation! 🖤

John Wick x Tattoo Artist Reader (Gender Neutral)

Author's Note: John is a little younger in this one (I’m picturing him being 18-19), so he’s not as mature. He’s even more shy and gets defensive more easily. Also, I'm not a tattoo artist, and haven't gotten any tattoos, so this is just based on what I've read about it!

CW: forced to get a tattoo, tattoo needle, crying, reader swears frequently, bittersweet ending

Image sources: 1 2 3

“You have time for a walk-in?”

You didn’t even hear this guy open the door. Once you’re done being startled, you notice…him. You’re not supposed to let yourself think this way about clients, but shit, he’s cute. He looks soft. Mostly clean shaven, with a thin, elegant face (maybe it’s the high cheekbones), topped off with a mop of dark hair. And probably inexperienced, based on how nervous he looks. A little part of you wonders how this is going to go for him. “You’re in luck. What’s your name?”

No answer.

“Can I see an ID?”

He hesitates awkwardly. “I’m coming from Mrs. Petrov.”

Oh. So he’s one of these. You doubt that’s her real name, but Mrs. Petrov sailed into your shop one day offering to double the usual price if you’d keep quiet and ask no questions, and you sure need the money. Your skin is crawling a bit but you take a deep breath and get into it.

“Okay, good enough for me. What design are we looking at?”

He hands you a paper. It’s the same one you’ve seen half a dozen times: hands touching in prayer over an image of the cross. Guys come to you for this tat again and again, “from Mrs. Petrov.” One told you it was a mark of his acting troupe, another said it was a family crest, another a symbol of his church. They’re probably all lying, but you know better than to call them on it – or to turn any of them away. You’re pretty sure it’s a mob thing. It breaks your heart a little bit to think he’s caught up in all that. He doesn’t look the part. But then, you also know better than to judge by looks alone.

You gesture to the chair. “Settle in, face down. It’s better if we have your shirt off.” He’s way too delicious underneath it. The perfect canvas...shhhhh stop it. You’re a professional and he’s…god knows what. “This will take about four or five hours. Is that okay?”

He nods.

“Silent type I guess?”

That gets a faint smile before he lays across the bench, chin resting on folded arms. You flip the Open sign to Closed, pull on your gloves, and start prepping tools. You turn on the radio to 80s rock, filling the silence between you - though it doesn’t feel like a stressful silence, surprisingly. Both of you know how odd this situation is and you’re both just trying to get through it. There’s a camaraderie to that.

You glance down at the design in your hand and whistle. It’s pretty big, taking up most of the center of his back, between the scapulas. “Is this your first tattoo?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright, well I’ll be real with you: this is going right over the spine, so you can expect some pain. Nothing that’ll kill you, just…not super pleasant. So I’ll check in from time to time, see how you’re doing. If you need a break, we can take one.”

“I won’t.” He sounds pretty sure of that. Standing behind him, you shake your head. It’s always the ones that are so sure…

“Well, after a while, I’ll need one.” You run disinfecting wipes over the center of his back and set to work. When the needle touches down for the first time, he winces once, but he doesn’t wince again for the next ten minutes of linework. It takes you that long to realize that he’s barely breathing. “Your muscles are tense, buddy. I need you to relax for me or this will hurt more.”

“…I just…don’t want to move.” There’s something so sweet about the way he says it.

“You won’t move. You’re actually less likely to shake if you can let yourself go totally limp, like you would if you were about to fall asleep. Here, sit up for a second, take a deep breath, and stretch out.” He listens, but he’s not looking at you. You’re pretty sure he’s blushing.

“Okay. I’m relaxed.” Liar. You can still feel the knots in his muscles when you touch him again. But at least it’s a little better than before, and he’s getting impatient. “Keep going.”

Well, the customer is always right. “Alright, let’s do it.” You grab your pen and get back into place. The best you can do is try to distract him. “How did you choose this tattoo anyway?” Might as well see what story this one will make up.

“I didn’t.” That’s probably the truest answer you’ve heard so far.

“Do you…like it?” God, you hope so.

“Not really.”

“…You’re telling me I’m putting something on your body right now that you don’t want there?”

“No,” he says, a little too quickly. “Forget it.”

That’s probably for the best anyway. You’ll get too pissed off if you keep going down this line of questioning. You take a deep breath and try for something lighter. “So what do you, uh…do for fun?”

“Reading, mostly.”

“Oh, sweet. You read anything good lately?”

“Kind of. I’m reading Anna Kerenina.” He slips into a faint accent when he says it, and you have a suspicion.

“What translation?”

“Just the Russian.” He sounds a little annoyed, like you caught him out on something. You suppose you did, and it was kind of fun.

“Bilingual. That’s badass.”

“Thanks.” There’s silence again for a minute, but it feels friendlier.

“So what do you think of it?”

“It’s...fine.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Yeah, it’s kind of dry.”

“I guess, but I don’t mind that. I just don’t like Anna and Vronsky. Which is Tolstoy’s whole point, but…”

“They’re both little shits to everyone. Makes it hard to get invested.”

“Right, exactly.” He shifts his chin. “If I was married, I can’t imagine cheating.” From some people, a line like that would sound like a transparent attempt to come across as a “nice guy.” But he says it so wistfully, you know he means it.

Don’t say what you’re about to say. Don’t say it. Be professional.

…Fuck it, you’re doing this under the table anyway. “Are you dating anybody?”

“No.” It sounds so bitter that, for a second, you think you really are dealing with a nice-guy-impersonator. But then he clarifies. “My…lifestyle doesn’t allow for that.”

“Oh.” You can’t think of any way to reply that doesn’t involve the burning questions in your mind about what exactly this “lifestyle” entails. So you lapse into silence again, for much longer this time, just thinking, wondering what it’s like to be one of these young men with the cross tattoos. Are they all friends with each other? What exactly do they do? Is it difficult? How does it pay? How did they get into it?

You stop when you’re done with the linework. “Okay, that went great! We’re totally done with the outlines, which is half the battle. I’m going to take a break before we start on the shading.” You circle around in front of him to grab your water bottle, and catch a glimpse of his face as he’s straightening up.

He’s wiping off silent tears.

Your heart almost drops out of your chest. “Oh shit. Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, but it sounds hoarse and shaky. “Just hurt more than I expected.” He huffs a laugh, trying to play the whole thing off as unimportant.

“Dude, I told you we can take breaks if you need. If you’re crying from pain, you’re too tensed up. Tell me next time, alright?” Before you realize what you’re doing, you’re rubbing his shoulder. He freezes for a second, and you pull back. “Sorry, I – I didn’t mean to – “

“No, it’s okay. I’m just not used to that.”

“Damn, how do they treat you at Mrs. Petrov’s place?” You’re half joking, but you want to know more and more by the second. And when he just looks grave and doesn’t answer, your heart does that weird dropping thing again.

“…Let me get you a water, okay? I’ll be right back.” You’re grateful for the short walk to the mini fridge you keep in the back of the parlor. It feels so heavy in that room. You’re starting to wish you hadn’t taken the deal, because whatever this is, you don’t want to be involved.

When you come back, he’s perfectly composed again, but looking at you more carefully this time, like he’s finally really seeing you. After he takes a drink of water, he hesitates for a second. “My name is Jardani.”

Warmly, “Nice to meet you.” You take the bottle back and set it on the table, within reach. “You’ll tell me if you get overwhelmed next time?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I’m trusting you.”

You watch him settle in and get back to work. It’s okay at first but there’s a dark shadow under those praying hands that needs to go right over his spine. It’s basically pure black. A couple minutes into it, he exhales sharply, like he’d been holding his breath for a while. “Stop.”

You set your pen down right away. “You got it.” You pull up a chair next to him and he turns to look at you, without sitting up. He’s really pale. “How are you feeling?”

“Lightheaded.”

“Yeah, you can pass out if you get tense like that for too long. But you’re okay. We can take as long as you need.” You put your hand on his shoulder again, massaging it, and this time, he lets you. You can feel some of the tension finally seep away and the color returns to his cheeks. The dark pools of his eyes are fixed on yours, and if you aren’t careful, you feel like you could fall into them and drown. There’s something trapped in cold waters down there, pleading for rescue.

Yeah, sure. If you were being unprofessional before, now you’re being a downright sentimental fool. This guy has probably shot people.

Despite being deep and rumbling, his voice sounds so quiet that it’s almost shy. “You don’t know what this means to me, to have a…nice moment... Thank you.”

“Oh – you’re welcome. It’s nothing, really.” You’re absolutely done for. “Um, do you want to stand up and stretch before we get back at it?”

“Mm-hm.”

Your brain is fried but you manage to hold it together while the both of you get back into position. The rest of the session goes pretty smoothly, and you talk a little more here and there. At first it’s just about how he should take care of this thing when it’s finished – staying out of the sun and all that. But then he starts to ask you about yourself - what you read, how you got into tattooing, your favorite designs. Everything you say seems to interest him. You can’t quite believe it but he’s obviously developing a crush on you. Or at least getting attached in some way. You can’t blame him, if the smallest friendly touch is such a foreign concept.

It's too soon when you place the finishing touches. “Okay! You want to take a look?” You help him up, his hand resting in yours for an instant as he slides off the bench, stiff and probably aching. It sends a jolt straight to your heart, to support some fraction of his weight and to feel the way his fingers squeeze down on yours before letting go. You mourn the contact instantly, and distract yourself by adjusting the two mirrors that reflect into each other, allowing him to see his back. “What do you think?”

“It does look cool actually.” He cracks a little heart-melting smile, and you’re really relieved. He may not have wanted it, but at least he’s not devastated.

“’Course it does, it was done by the best in the business,” you joke. Though to be honest, you really are impressed with your handiwork. Doing the same tattoo so many times pays off – each one has looked more polished than the last. It’s almost a shame to see him put his shirt back on…for multiple reasons.

“Oh, uh…” He fishes something out of his pocket. A wad of hard cash – a LOT of it, as usual. “Here’s the payment.” And then he’s leaving, before you can do anything, say anything, even catch the breath you’d lost trying to comprehend everything that just happened.

“Hey, wait!” You don’t really know what you’re going to say, but then he’s facing you again and you have to say something, and it just comes out. “…Do you need help? I don’t know what’s going on, but look, I’m not an idiot. I know something’s wrong here. I don’t know who Mrs. Petrov really is and I don’t care, but if you need me to do something, like…I don’t know, call a social worker or something or help you get transport out of the city...” Your voice falters. You have no idea what he’d need and even less idea how to provide it without getting both of you killed. And what if you’ve misread the whole situation? What if you’re completely out of line?

It certainly looks that way. It’s like a switch flips in him. “No. Whatever you do, don’t fucking try anything. It’s none of your business.” It’s the coldest he’s sounded. “You won’t see me again.” The door slams behind him.

You brace a hand against the counter behind you, shaking. How could you be so stupid, honestly. This emotional roller coaster isn’t worth it. You wish you’d never seen Mrs. Petrov, let alone this Jardani with his damn pain-soaked eyes and cornered-dog behavior. There’s something awful going on, and you can’t do anything about it, you’re just making it worse. If you can get out of this deal, you have to, even if it means getting out of the city. Maybe out west - San Francisco sounds nice this time of year.

You’re just putting yourself back together and trying to decide what the hell you’re gonna do when the door flings open again and he storms back though it, stopping short right in front of you. For a second, you just stare at each other, breathing hard. Then he catches the flash of foolish happiness in your eyes at seeing him again and musters his nerves.

And he. Fucking. Kisses. You. Forcefully, with his strong hands gripping your arms and his teeth colliding with yours, pulling, desperate, rebellious, like he’s trying to tell you something he’s not allowed to say. You’re pretty sure it’s, “Thank you. For being one of the few people who cared.”

And then he’s gone again, and this time, you can feel it: he’s never coming back.

#john wick #john wick fanfic #john wick x reader #john wick tattoo #john wick whumpee #soft john wick #tattoo whump #angst #wickblr

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