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v1x3n · 9 months ago

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TIME TRAVEL ── ripped apart.

♯ PAIRINGS - john price x falsely accused reader x 141

♯ SYNOPSIS - tortured for information by your family and the person you loved, john price. you were harmed for something you hadn't even done, you were framed as the traitor and soon they would find out.

♯ TAGS - angst - torture, mockery, threats, drunk creeps, harassing, tension, blood.

─ previous chapter // masterlist // next chapter ─

A quick yet cold splash to the face awoke you, you cough as your face splattered with freezing water, you jolt up and choke. “Mornin” a rough voice sounds from beside you. You peer over and see Johnny McTavish, “how’d you sleep, bonnie?” he mockingly sneers. “Fuck you” you spit at him, look down at the floor you had passed out on, the dried blood and the water spilled all over below you, you grip onto the floor and slowly look up, meeting your eyes with the door in the corner, you could see prices beefy build standing there on the other side of the bars that held you in this room. The gaps through the metal you could make out a stern yet upset face , one that you gotten used to when you had helped him ease his worries after a harsh mission, or when you had gotten hurt and he was dreadfully worried for you. You sometimes thought that maybe he was nicer and cared more about you than others but you know now that wasn't true - it couldn't be fucking true if this is how he treated you when one fucking person accused you of being the traitor.

Johnny glances over at price then his gaze arrives back at you, “divnt look at ‘im, look at me.” your eyes move down to the floor as you choke once more, a string of saliva drips from your mouth and platters onto the floor, your breath smelt like vomit, you scowl at the memories of last night. Prices fist clenches at the look of you, so so scared. Johnny's hand is brought to your jaw as he bends down, forcing you to look up at him, “are ye gunna talk?” Your continued silence was enough to make him wince. His fingers dug into your jaw, you whine at him and continue looking at him. Trying to make yourself seem the tiniest bit strong - even for one moment, but you knew he saw the nervous, scared look you had in your eyes. “It's not me!” you shout out, your eyes moving back to the spot where price has stood just moments before but he had vanished. You felt like you were almost hallucinating, between this and your dreams - your fucking stupid dreams - you felt like you were going insane. The only thing keeping you sane right now was the pure pain, it kept you realize that you were alive. Still fucking alive, living through all of this shit they are putting you through.

You spit on his face, the small collection of saliva in your mouth manages to spew out onto him, he scoffs at you before swiping it off. “Fucken hell, lass.” that mocking glare peers into you, a sense of danger swells into your heart. “Let.” you shout, “me.” your voice gets louder after each work, “out!” you scream, trying to push him away from you, his breath hot on your face while he forces you closer, almost cheek to cheek. “Keep fucken shoutin’ nd yer gunna lose yer tongue.” the man sighs onto your cheeks.

You shut up real fast, lips sealed and you glare at him, he steps up whilst realizing your jaw from his tight grip. Johnny stands above you and peers down at you. “Sit up” demanding whilst grabbing some pliers from his left pocket, he bends down - waiting for you to obey his command.

Your knees are weak as you fumble, trying your hardest to get up but as you see the pliers you instantly freeze, “wait wait wait!” you panic, trying to back up. Your mutilated hand gripping onto behind you to scoot away. “Awh bonnie, don't be scared” he chuckles, grabbing onto your hair once more, forcing you closer, shards of hair ripping out as he pulls you by the scalp. He drags your hair back so you're looking up into his eyes, one of his rough hands on your head whilst the other holds onto the tool. “Open up, lassy” Johnny's harsh smile pulls a deep concern deep into your heart.

If you felt like you were in danger before who knows what the fuck you were feeling now.

His soul scarring smirk as he tortures one of his best friend is un-fucking-godly. “I said open up.” his eyes crinkle when he smiles at you, the pliers spin around and he brings the handle to your lips, forcing them apart. Your jaw opened by force by the tool, johnny eyes meet with yours as your stomach sinks. “Keep it open, jus’ like tha’” you decide to comply - too scared for what he would do if you wouldn't, you held your mouth wide open, eyes squeezed closed to prepare yourself for what johnny was about to do. The tool brings close towards your mouth and it chips at your front teeth, a spark of your tooth hits the ground.

Your knees scrape against the floor as you unconsciously squirm away, he grips onto your scalp further, pulling your hair so you were kneeled in the position you were earlier. The pliers hit your tooth and create a clinking sound, the tool pulls onto it. Eyes squeezing together as the tooth pulls out and blood pools from the gum, “Aye” the man in front of you grunts and holds onto the tooth with his gimmick. Johnny's expression did not change as he ripped out your tooth, his smile plastered onto his face with a concentrated expression - simply watching his friend and past coworker pull teeth from the person he cared about. A trail of garnet lingering through your saliva and you spit out onto the floor - well, you try too but with Johnny holding your head back. The wetness trails down to your chin and down your neck, the blood mixing with your spit. You stayed silent as the pliers held up with your torn tooth. “Atta girl” he sneers once more and his hand detaches from your hair as his posture straightens up.

That night had started off easy but soon it turned into hours on torture, the one memory replayed in your mind as johnny harmed you, over and over. Trying so desperately to get information out of you but you obviously wouldn't - and couldn't - say anything. The memory you kept repeating was after a long mission. You and the rest of the taskforce decided to go out for a few drinks at the closest bar. Long story short - all of yous were pissed.

That night yous laughed around a small table and passed banter along to one another. You fumble over to the bar and bend over the counter, almost yelling over your thoughts running through your head. Then some fucking creep comes over and starts talking to you.

God, you felt his eyes trail your body as his hand moved down your arm, you flinch back and politely mutter, “oh uhm s-sorry but i have a..boyfriend.” you lie but he ignores your almost plea and he gets closer towards you, “c’monn… he doesn't haf t’ know” he slurs - clearly tipsy. You gulp and back up, looking over at your table to say if anyone was looking. But the table had one person missing, john. Eyebrows furrow and you back up slightly, only to be stopped by a large frame, before you could turn around you heard his booming voice, “he bothering you, sweeth’art?” the gross man in front of you eyes widens, he steps away from you. “N-no he's okay,” you mumble, looking up at the man behind you. His furious face was kinda hot, but you were too focused on how his rough hand moves to your waist. “No need f’ a fight, hm? Leave the bar and get yourself home,” John smiles.

Before the man could speak, John growls, “if I see you talking t’ my girl again, you'll get your tiny cock cut off.” a dangerous smile plastered on his face as the tipsy man trembles away from both of yous and eventually out the bar doors.

“You seriously okay?” he peers down at you, his hands still lingering on your skin. “Oh yeah!” you smile, turning around to look up at him, “thanks, you uhm- you didn't need t’” a layer of blush covers your cheeks and your eyelashes flutter as you look up at him. “Couldn't let that disgusting bastard touch you up like tha’” a distant shout from the table you were sitting at earlier interprets you and john's conversation, a scottish voice, “oi! Yous two quit flirtin’! Ye’are two drinks behind!!” another swarm of blush fills your cheeks and you two move back over to the table.

You wish time travel was invented, maybe you would travel to that bar on that night, or maybe you would travel to before you met them - start it all over or change choices in your life. Ones that wouldn't end in betrayal and your heart broken. The things you would give to rewind this all.

You gasp and reach out as John holds a dagger to your throat, “last chance” he dares - holding onto your jaw to hold you up whilst he knees behind you. His breath was hot on the back of your neck which in any other situation but this time it scared you. But after all he needed you to fear him. “We both know it's easier if you start talking, told you before. Last chance.” spitting at you and the dagger gently digs into your skin, creating a small slit. Your head leans back to try to get away from the pain but his strong grip on your jaw keeps you steady. The blade digging into you, almost too deep, “you have five seconds or i'm done with you.” after a few weeks you had finally given up.

“Five”

Your heart thumps, was he really going to do this?

“Four”

Trying to squirm away from him yet once more his grip grew stronger.

“Three”

John's hand tightened on the weapon he had in front of your throat.

“Two”

His voice grew deeper as the blade stings, drops of blood trails down your neck and onto your bare chest.

“One”

Two hearts beat in that room as you were about to have your throat slit but John hesitates.

Just as he went too, Kyle stomps into the room, “w-wait no stop!” the blade backs from your throat and the man backs up, “she-” Kyle breathes heavily - obviously trying to catch his breath. It was very clear he had just ran here. “She's not the traitor- w- was framed” Kyle's hands go down to his knees as his breathing slows down. You cough and hands fall to the floor as blood drops from the cut on your neck. Your face looks down at the floor and your hand reaches to your neck to stop the blood. John backs up and straightens himself out, staring down at the body before him trying to stop the blood.

“Oh.”

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eternal-evergreens · 10 months ago

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｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+*⁠.⁠✧JJK Men as Yanderes ｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+*⁠.⁠✧

Post Format: Headcanons

Featuring: Gender-Neutral Reader, Satoru Gojo, Suguru Geto, Kento Nanami, Toji Fushiguro, Ryomen Sukuna, Mahito, Choso Kamo

Word count: Each piece is roughly 750 words

Warnings: implied sabotage (Gojo, Toji, Choso), invasion of privacy (Gojo), kidnapping (Gojo, Sukuna), murder (Geto), kidnapping mention (Nanami, Toji), suicidal ideation (Nanami), light gore (Gojo, Sukuna, Mahito), reader injury (Sukuna), threats of bodily harm/mutilation (Mahito), sexual assault (Mahito), implied murder (Choso)

Satoru Gojo

You're nothing special. Not compared to him, at least. With no long line of sorcery or blue blood running through your veins, your family is just about as average as it gets.

You're nothing special---not to Jujutsu society, anyway. But who gives a shit about that? To Satoru, you're more than special.

You're everything.

He's always been the strongest, and yet, when he's with you, he just feels so weak.

Like a schoolgirl fawning over her latest crush, Satoru often finds himself checking his phone while away on missions, hoping to see your name appear on his screen. It doesn't have to be anything special—even a picture of some ugly animal with the caption "That's u, lol." is enough to get him going. Just knowing you were thinking of him at all, even in an unflattering light, makes him feel lightheaded in a way not even battle can emulate.

It's weird. It's embarrassing.

But he can't get enough.

Satoru wants you more than he's ever wanted anything, and he wants you to feel the same way. He'd do anything if it meant winning your heart.

If you asked him to kneel, he'd kneel. If you asked him to beg, he'd beg. If you asked him to rip out a man's heart and present it to you, he'd ask if he should do so on a silver or gold platter.

If you asked him to let you go, however...

You sigh and fall back onto the couch. It'd been a week since your landlord mysteriously kicked you out, and Satoru took you in with a frankly suspicious eagerness. To say that he was an overbearing roommate was to put it lightly.

He'd follow you around the flat from room to room, enter your bedroom without knocking, and once, you even caught him sifting through your laundry. He wasn't even embarrassed about getting caught, let alone the fact that he had done it in the first place.

You decided to start searching for a new roommate after that.

"Y'know," Satoru says, slinging his arms around your shoulders---you hadn't even heard him approach. You quickly close your computer, which happens to have very clearly been showcasing cheap apartments in the area. "I could have just taken ya'. Snatched you up off the street like some kidnapper."

"What...?"

"---But I decided to play nice instead. I thought we could forge a real relationship that way. But you've just been pushing me away. I'm starting to think I've been too lenient with ya'. Like maybe I should have just locked you up instead."

"That isn't funny, Satoru."

"Who said I was joking?" You open your mouth to respond, but Satoru cuts you off before you get the chance. "You want dinner? I can order us takeout. Anywhere you'd like."

Drop it, his eyes say. You do.

That very night, you pack a bag and head to the nearest hotel. In the morning, you'll ask your job if they can transfer you to another city. For tonight, you'd like to just get a good night's rest without the lingering fear of waking up to his figure looming over you.

You wake up to familiar surroundings. It doesn't register as strange until you remember checking into a hotel the night prior. You shoot up to get a better look around. Sure enough, you're in your own bedroom, not the hotel's.

But how...?

You're sure you left last night. Did you dream it? You go to check your phone, but it's not there.

Just then, the door opens. "Oh, you're up," your roommate says.

"Satoru, what's---"

"I called you in sick for work today," he says casually, "and tomorrow. Actually, starting today, you're unemployed."

"What?!"

"Don't worry. I can take care of us. I've got more than enough money."

Satoru wants you more than he's ever wanted anything, and he wants you to feel the same way. He'd do anything if it meant winning your heart.

If you asked him to kneel...If you asked him to beg...

If you asked him to let you go, however...

"C'mon, baby, you know I can't do that," he'd say, arms around your waist and head in your lap. "Ask me for something else, anything. Just not that. Do you want a pony? We can get a pony."

"No---"

"What about a cat? Or maybe you prefer dogs? I could get a purebred if you wanted one. I know it gets lonely being in the house all by yourself."

"I want to go outside, Satoru."

"We could get a fish tank, I guess. Though I doubt they'd make good company."

"Listen to me---"

"Actually, maybe that's for the best. Wouldn't want to compete for my lover's attention in my very own home, you know?"

Suguru Geto

When he was at his lowest, Suguru thought of you. It kept him going. It kept him sane.

So, of course, you were the first person he asked to join him in the creation of the new world. His world.

"Our world," he said, the look on his face desperate, pleading.

You declined, of course. His ideals went against everything you stood for as a Jujutsu sorcerer. As a person.

He took it well---or seemed to, at least. He flashed you a plastered-on smile and released your hands from his, leaving you with no further fuss.

For a while, that seemed to be the end of it.

Life went on. Though you would occasionally catch wind of his nefarious deeds, dealing with such things never fell within your purview. In fact, it almost seemed as if the higher-ups were purposefully keeping you from any cases that involved him.

You had all but forgotten about that fateful evening when a call from the higher-ups had you booking a flight to Okayama.

Apparently, there had been a sudden influx of cursed spirits in the region. And as the lead researcher in cursed phenomena, you were called to the scene.

You had already been given a file outlining the happenings, but out of courtesy, Yumi, the assistant supervisor assigned to the case alongside you, filled you in regardless.

"It's not that there's a higher rate of cursed spirits being born in this area," she said. "They're migrating here."

"Hmm," you look over the map on your tablet again; colour-coded dots mark the locations and grades of each (presumed) non-native sighting. The spacings are far from natural. They seem to have been made with intent, almost as if forming a pattern of some kind.

"We've set up a barrier to track the arrival of new cursed spirits. Nearly every curse from fourth to semi-first grade in the neighbouring towns has been coming here. Some of our windows have even spotted them moving together in groups."

"Was there anything strange about their behaviour? Like moving in single-file lines, with strange movements, or perhaps even speaking?" Yumi lights up.

"Yes, actually! They were all---"

Your screen flashes, suddenly restarting the tablet without your input.

"Huh...?"

"[Last]-San..." Your supervisor almost whispers. You tear your eyes from your screen to hers as she weakly holds up her tablet to you.

Over four hundred cursed spirits have been spotted crossing the Okayama border within the past fifteen minutes.

Your tablet finishes restarting, and you scramble to view the map again, hoping what you just saw was nothing more than a glitch.

The loading screen seems to take ages to complete, but when it does, the map shows exactly what you feared.

Oh. You get it now.

The pattern it was trying to spell out. It's "愛"

---"Love".

You hear a scream.

"Ah, it's good to see you again. How long has it been now?" A voice---one you're all too familiar with---says. "Two, no, maybe three years?" Suguru is wiping blood off of his hands. You don't want to look down. You can't look down.

Yumi is dead.

You looked down.

"I'm not sure why I phrased that like a question I didn't know the answer to," he says, smiling in a way that makes your heart ache. "I've been keeping track down to the days, you see."

"Were you...behind this?" You've never been one for combat. You can't use reverse cursed technique to save Yumi. You can't fight to save the others. There's nothing you can do.

You've never felt so helpless.

"I did," he admits casually. "I recently got my hands on a new curse. First-grade 'Pied Piper', its technique creates a sort of call-and-response between itself and other curses of a lower grade through a musical frequency only other curses can perceive. With that technique, I can manipulate the movements of curses I haven't yet acquired without leaving my residuals behind."

"But if it's coming from the technique of a curse you possess, your residuals would still be left behind," you counter.

"Ah, as quick on the uptake as always, [First]," he praises. "You're right, or you would be if this curse were under the control of my curse spirit manipulation. No, this curse was tamed, not subjugated."

"Why are you telling me this?"

He's going to kill you once he's finished explaining.

"I've always appreciated an inquisitive mind," he says. "especially when it's your inquisitive mind." Your mouth forms a vague 'O' shape as the realisation dawns on you.

"愛"

"Love"

...You're never getting away.

Kento Nanami

Nanami is someone who has never really been all that content with life.

Sorcery sucks. Corporate sucks. Japan sucks.

Sometimes, on his darkest days, Nanami thinks about what would have happened if he had joined Haibara—or better yet, if he had never even been born in the first place. If the world is this awful, wouldn't it be better to have never experienced it at all?

But then he met you, and suddenly, the world didn't seem all that bad.

Don't get him wrong, it's not like your presence suddenly made all the wrongs in the world right, but it did make him feel like they all mattered just a little bit less. Like maybe all this suffering was worth it, if it also meant he could see you smile.

So, of course, he'd do anything to keep you safe. To protect that smile.

The easiest way to ensure that, of course, would be to clip your wings. To lock you away somewhere where only he could reach you. A songbird that only sings for him, a dove in a birdcage.

He'd treat you like royalty, of course. His job pays well, but he's a somewhat frugal person by nature, so he has plenty of savings lying around. Whatever you wanted, he'd get you.

As long as you stayed safe, he couldn't ask for anything more. Even if you didn't love him, as long as your smile could be protected, that would be enough.

He's in the middle of researching what kind of restraints would cause the least damage and irritation to your skin when he realises what a grave mistake he was about to make.

'If the world is this awful, wouldn't it be better to have never experienced it at all?'

What if...

What if you started feeling that way, too?

What if, in trying to protect your smile, he ends up being the one to take it away?

He could offer you all the material things in the world, but if it comes at the price of your freedom, it might still not make you happy. After all, it was the same for him.

If money didn't make him happy, why would you be different?

Sorcery sucks. Corporate sucks. Japan sucks.

Nanami is worse.

He doesn't deserve you. It's with this thought in mind that he begins to avoid you. He refuses to meet your gaze, leaves the room when you enter, and declines all missions that involve your presence.

He feels like he's going crazy. Separation has made him sloppy and reckless. He comes home with more injuries, and a part of him thinks he deserves it.

Bags begin to form under his eyes as two weeks go by without the haven of your presence. He sees you everywhere now. The girl across the street is dressed in a substyle you like. The model in that magazine has your eyes. The cafe down the block is having a special on your coffee order.

"Nanamin, why're you avoiding [Last] all of a sudden? They do something to you?" Nanami scoffs at the remark but doesn't answer. He turns to leave but stops when Gojo continues. "Y'know, they actually came cryin' to me about it. Said they had no idea why you suddenly started treatin' 'em like they've got the plague." Nanami turns to look at Gojo, who's fiddling with his blindfold. "You should make up with them soon. Can't leave our cute little assistant supervisor feeling so down, you know?"

Nanami hates to admit it, but Gojo might be right.

'What if, in trying to protect your smile, he ends up being the one to take it away?'

Fuck. He can't do anything right.

He really doesn't deserve you, but what can he do? If he leaves, you won't smile anymore, but if he stays, you'll be smiling at a monster.

But what can he do? He'd do anything to protect that smile.

Even if it means hiding his fangs.

Toji Fushiguro

Toji is a man who takes what he wants and doesn't care if he has to get his hands dirty in order to take it.

Naturally, this applies to you as well.

It's strange, he's never wanted someone as badly as he wants you. Not his past flings, not even his late wife.

Toji is no stranger to romance. He was married, after all. He knows love. It's a familiar feeling.

That's why he's inclined to believe that what he feels for you isn't love. No, what he feels for you is far too primal to be love. It's rough and all-consuming. It's nothing like the soothing feeling he had around his wife.

Love wraps around one's heart like a warm blanket. This wraps around his heart like a python.

But if it's not love, what is it?

Actually, scratch that. It doesn't matter.

Whatever it is, it's some form of desire. And if he desires something, then all he has to do is take it.

Yes, it's better to keep these kinds of things simple rather than getting tied up in technicalities.

There is a problem, however. He'd like nothing more than to just lock you up and keep you for himself, but with his somewhat unstable income and his habit of bouncing around from place to place, that isn't exactly feasible.

Ah, what to do...?

He could settle down or stop spending his money as soon as he earns it, but where's the fun in that?

No, rather than try to adapt to your lifestyle, he'd much rather force you to adapt to his. Still, he supposes some sacrifices will be necessary, as his lifestyle is currently only fit for one.

You'll have to quit your job since you'll be moving around from place to place alongside him, but he'll just take on some more jobs to cover the extra cost; it's no big deal.

He proposes the idea to you so matter-of-factly that it's almost as if he believes you to have already agreed to the plan beforehand. In reality, this is your first time hearing of such a thing, and you're so stunned that you momentarily lose your voice.

You've known this man for two, no, maybe three weeks, and yet he's asking you to drop everything and come overseas with him? You're not even friends! He's just a regular at the cafe you're employed with.

It dawns on you that he must be joking, so you chuckle awkwardly and avert your gaze. Perhaps you simply haven't known him long enough to gauge his sense of humour. You feel a little embarrassed for nearly having taken him so seriously.

Then, he shows you the plane tickets.

Bewildered, you end up being more blunt than you perhaps meant to: "I'm not going," you say, pushing his tickets back to him.

"Sweetheart," he says dryly. "I'm not asking." You shoot him a strained, confused smile, which quickly morphs into a more genuine one as the door chimes.

To think you'd ever be happy to serve a customer. It's a foreign sentiment, but if it means an end to this strange interaction, you'd happily serve a hundred---no, maybe even a thousand customers.

You take their order and get to making their drink, shooting quick glances at the man---Toji, you think---from behind the bar.

He hasn't taken his eyes off of you.

It's days like this that you wish the company wasn't so stingy about hiring more than one person for shifts. You're about to clock out, and if that man is going to stay until closing, you'd really like to have a coworker walk you back to your car.

It's twenty minutes until closing when Toji finally leaves. You let out an unconscious sigh of relief, feeling your shoulders relax. That was weird, but you shouldn't have to see him again, right? He's going overseas tomorrow, after all.

Yeah, you won't see him again. Thank goodness.

It's with that thought in mind that you flip the "We're open!" sign to its side and lock the doors. It's only 6 PM, but the fall season means it's already dark. You shiver from a cool breeze as you make your way towards your car at last.

Huh. Flat tire.

Ryomen Sukuna

Those who know of Sukuna will inevitably feel sorry for anyone who happens to catch his gaze. Sorcerer or not, none will ever possess even a fraction of the strength he carries, and for someone like Sukuna, that means you're no better than a bug to be trampled on.

What a poor, pitiful thing you are. You must be treated more like a pet than a person. A plaything for him to toy with, to discard once you've ceased to entertain.

However, this interpretation couldn't be more wrong.

What others fail to realise is that Sukuna would never waste his time on someone he doesn't consider his equal. Weak as you may be, there's something about you that seems different in his eyes.

Like a precious gem left unpolished, there's a certain allure to you that only a trained eye could see, and he'll be damned if he lets anyone else stake a claim on you first.

No, he'll be the one to bring out your true potential.

Sukuna has never met someone worthy of being his companion. This has never bothered him, however. Loneliness was not something he was familiar with. There are those who have tried, of course, to prove their worth, to stand by his side, but none have ever moved him.

None until you, that is.

The funny thing is that you don't even try to win his attention. You never once asked for his gaze to land upon you. And yet, he can't bring himself to look away.

Sukuna doesn't know what to do with you. You make him feel things he's never felt before.

Is this weakness? Is it love?

Is there a difference between the two at all?

Should he kill you? Should he keep you?

What can he do to make these feelings go away? What can he do to ensure they never go away?

In exchange for not pillaging your homeland, the townspeople offer you up as a sacrifice. It was Uraume's idea.

At midnight, you're dragged out of the comfort of your home and tied to a stake, where you stay for hours. By dawn, you've worn yourself out with struggle, dried blood sticking to your hands and the ropes around your wrists, when a white-haired stranger comes to collect you.

The stranger undoes your bindings, but only the ones keeping you bound to the pole. You're dragged along like a dog on a leash for countless hours until you eventually arrive at the largest estate you've ever seen in your life. It's midday when you're untied and allowed to bathe. The warm water releases all the tension from your aching muscles, and as you bathe, the white-haired fellow replaces the garments you arrived in with robes made of fine silk.

The stranger's name is Uraume, they tell you. They'll be taking care of you until their master is ready to meet with you.

"What happens after that?" you ask tentatively.

Uruame flashes you a smile that refuses to answer.

Before you know it, a full week has passed you by. You're still yet to see this so-called master, but Uraume tells you not to worry. After all, the master has already seen you lots of times, they say.

The thought of being watched in secret sends a shiver down your spine.

Though the prison is large, you're confined to only one wing of the estate, and after a week of having nothing to do but wander, you have the entire layout memorized. Bored and unattended, you decide to venture out into the unknown past the garden's gates. There, you come face-to-face with the largest man you've ever laid eyes upon.

A hulking figure with four arms and fiery pink hair turns to you, and in an instant, you fall to the ground, only vaguely aware of the blood pooling around you and the pain across your chest.

In truth, Sukuna had tried to kill you, but his technique missed your vitals. It takes him a moment of watching your blood ooze out of the open wound to realize he did it on purpose. Before he even realizes it, he's picked you up in his lower arms and applied reverse cursed technique to your injury. You've lost consciousness, and your pulse is weak, but you aren't dead. Relief floods through Sukuna's veins as he listens to your soft breathing.

From that day on, you're never to leave his side unless absolutely necessary. From that day on, Sukuna has someone worthy of standing by his side, not as a servant, nor a pet, but as a companion. From that day on, Sukuna has a lover.

Whether you like it or not.

Mahito

As a curse born from the hatred and fear humans feel towards their own kind, Mahito relishes humanity's anguish and despair. He kills without a second thought, not caring who he hurts or who gets swept up into his path of mass destruction.

So why is it that this particular human sways him so? Why is it that he thinks your soul looks pretty, just the way it is? Why does he want to touch you but not to warp you beyond repair?

Why does he want you to look at him? Why does he want to scoop your eyes out of your sockets so that you can never look away?

To be a curse is to always follow your own desires, no matter how contradictory or inconsistent---that's the motto that Mahito lives by.

So, of course, this philosophy applies to you as well.

It doesn't make sense, and he doesn't understand it. But that doesn't matter to him. Why would it? He's a curse, and curses take what they want. What he wants is you, so, of course, he has to take you, too.

Mahito doesn't spend long watching you before he makes his move. First, he has to check if you can even see curses to begin with. If you can, that'll make things easier. But if you can't...well, that'll be fun too.

He bumps into you at the train station around 2 AM. It was a late night at work, and you're now dead on your feet. There's no one around, so it's the perfect time for him to test you. He taps your shoulder with a smile.

If you don't react, he starts feeling you up, talking aloud about how much he wants you as his hands roam your body.

"Mm, you're so weak," he says, palm on your stomach. "Look at you, all unguarded. If I wanted to, I could take your soul and just—" he squeezes the flesh on your abdomen. "—until you go splat! Hmm, but I don't really want to do that. I wonder why?" His hand trails down to your hips, brushing past—but not quite landing on—your private areas.

"It's weird, isn't it? You can't even see me. You don't even know I exist. But I know you exist." He grabs your hand, interlocking your fingers together. "Humans usually wear rings when they're married, right? I wonder why you don't have one? You're such a catch," he giggles. "Ah, well, I guess it's better for me. Less work, y'know?Though, I would have liked to see the look on your face, coming home to dear, sweet hubby, all mangled up in your living room. I wouldn't even bother transfiguring him. No, I'd want you to see his face clearly, all contorted in pain with his guts splayed out all over the floor."

He follows you home. You still can't see him, but you at least seem a little aware of his presence, with the way you keep glancing over your shoulder, randomly picking up the pace and taking more turns than necessary.

How fascinating! You can't see him, and yet you can sense him? He's swooning already.

"Don't worry, [First]," he says, arms around your shoulders as you fumble with your keys. "You'll be able to see me soon. And after that, you're never getting rid of me."

If you do react, however, he holds himself back, opting to strike up a lighthearted conversation with you instead.

"What's a pretty thing like you doing here all alone?" He asks. "Don't you know the subway is dangerous at night?" You visibly bristle, clearly on guard. He grins.

"Do you need something?" You ask, clutching your bag to your chest and stepping back. His grin widens, easily closing the distance you've just created.

"You're lonely, aren't you? All you do is work; you don't even have any friends! It's kind of pathetic, really. That's okay, though, I like you anyway. I might be the only one."

"What do you---"

"I could help you, you know. Ease your loneliness, maybe?" He's touching you now. Nothing outright inappropriate, but you could smell his intentions from a mile away.

"No thanks," you say. The train stops, and you hurry off the platform. Fortunately, the stranger doesn't get off with you. He waves at you as the doors close, and you run all the way home.

Finally feeling safe, you don't bother to do anything more than kick off your shoes before collapsing on your bed. It creaks under your weight, then creaks again. You freeze, your eyes shooting open.

"Heya," the stranger says. "Fancy seeing you again."

Choso Kamo

If you were to describe him in one word, 'inexperienced' may be your best bet.

Though it's true that he has 'lived' for over one hundred and fifty years, he spent most of that time as a cursed womb, unable to truly experience the outside world for himself. Even after being incarnated and absorbing the memories of his host, Choso finds himself unable to relate to any of his body's experiences. He knows what love is and what lovers do, but only from a technical standpoint. To actually experience it is something he's never even dreamed of doing.

So, of course, when he starts feeling these things for you, he's unable to properly put a label on them. At first, he thinks he's sick, which isn't unreasonable, considering his rather long list of symptoms (fever, shakes, sweats, heart palpitations, and clouded mind, he notes dutifully).

However, that idea is quickly shut down. Being a cursed womb death painting, it's highly unlikely that he even can get sick; plus, his symptoms only seem to surface when you're around (or when he's thinking of you, which, admittedly, is often).

Did you curse him? No, you don't have a technique like that.

Then, what...?

It takes him a somewhat embarrassingly long time for him to realise the truth behind his feelings. It isn't until after he catches himself staring at your lips and thinking about how soft they'd feel against his that he concludes he likes you.

So, he's figured it out. Now what...?

Choso searches through his host's memories in an attempt to figure out how to woo you. Unfortunately for him, his host was a frat boy with commitment issues who knew more about one-night stands than how to build the foundations for an actual relationship.

So, Choso consults Yuki Tsukimo, who he, with his very limited circle of friends, considers to be an expert.

As expected, Yuki is ecstatic at the news that Choso has found his type. Immediately, she's giving an impromptu lecture on the ways of the heart.

"First, you have to figure out their type," she says, wagging a finger. "If it's a match, you're all good. If not, you either need to give up or double down."

Through Yuki's mentoring, Choso learned the general rules for signalling romantic interest. Flowers, chocolates, walks in the park, walks on the beach—a lot of walking in general, actually—candlelit dinner, pick-up lines—he's got it all memorized.

The problem is that his throat gets dry, and his knees lock up when he so much as thinks about talking to you.

So he takes to following you with his eyes instead.

"It's just until I gather the courage to talk to them," he tells himself. "I'll stop once I figure out their type."

Right, if he can't ask you about your interests, he'll just have to observe them instead.

So, he watches you. All the time. Eventually, he all but forgets about his previous plan of it being a temporary habit.

It's just so...addicting. Watching you go about your day like normal. Completely unaware of his presence in the shadows.

He learns about your hobbies, your interests, what kind of shows you like, your favourite foods, whether you still keep stuffed animals in your room, and more. He has a mental folder of all your likes and dislikes. And while there are some things he’s not able to learn, some places he’s not able to follow, it’s enough. Just knowing this much is perfect.

He doesn't do anything. He doesn't plan to, either. He’s content with just watching. It's comfortable like this. He doesn't want anything to change. So, he forgets about stopping, and instead sinks even deeper into his newfound obsession.

If he had it his way, things would stay like this forever. Him, never confessing, and you, never knowing. But, unfortunately, fate had other plans in mind.

It was 10:15 AM, and you were at a local coffee shop by yourself when the barista handed you their number with your receipt. You shyly accepted, and just a day later, the two of you had plans for a date the next week.

Unfortunately, your 'date' canceled last minute and blocked you with no explanation.

It's a good thing, then, that your good friend Choso just so happened to bump into you, lending you his shoulder to cry on.

Well, there's no reason to waste a good dinner reservation, right?

You never do go back to that cafe, but if you did, you'd find the barista missing from the register.

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writers-potion · 11 months ago

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Let's Scare Your Readers!

Combine the techniques below with the techniques for building suspense to give your readers a palm-sweating sensation!

Darkness

If absolute darkness doesn't make sense in your story, aim for semi-darkness: dusk, a single lantern/candle, heavily curtained windows, a thick canopy of trees, etc. Flickering lights that create confusing shadows can also be effective.

Let the darkness pool gradually around your MC. Show the night or fog rolling in, the camp-fire subsiding, or the candles burn down one by one.

Examples:

The candle sputtered. The light wavered.

The lamp cast its smoky light on the brick walls.

The night was silent, but for the dry rustling of leaves as the wind whispered through the trees.

Sound

Of all the senses, the sense of hearing serves best to create excitement and fear.

the clacking of the villain's boots on the floor tiles, the ticking of the wall clock, a dog barking outside, the roaring of a distant motor, a door slamming somewhere in the house, water dripping from the ceiling, the chair squeaking, the whine of the dentist's drill, the scraping of the knife on a whetstone, a faraway siren wailing the heroine's own heartbeat thudding in her ears.

When the surroundings are dark, your MC will grow to be more aware of the surrounding noise, even if it's not relevant to the plot.

Chill

Make it uncomfortably cold for the MC, and your readers will shiver with them.

powercut cutting off the heating, nightfall naturally bringing in lower temperatures.

winter, evening, a cool breeze that chills everything, survivors running our of fuel, the ceiling fan is over-active, stone builindg/caves/sbuterranean chambers tend to be cold.

Describe how the cold pinpricks the MC's skin, stunting their thinking and making them shiver.

The opposite can also be effective: turn up the temperature using a stove, an overheated motor, or the sweltering sun to make the MC sweat.

Isolation

This is a common technique: let the MC face the monster alone with no external help. It's also easier to limit the resources and escape routes available for the MC.

an abandoned factory, remote mountaintop, the depth of an unexplored cave.

It can also be more everyday locations: a construction site, the sewer, a malfunctioning bathroom.

Meet the Monster

When describing the threat, spread out your descriptions so that (1) the scene has constant action (2) you have material to build up later.

Good details to show:

hands, fingers, nails, talons, claws

the sound of the voice, growl, roar

the smile, teeth

the texture of skin, fur, scales.

Get Visceral

Never tell your readers that the MC is scared. Describe the fright using these physical effects:

the skin crawling, breath stalling, scalp pricking, clenching of the chest, stomach curling, heart thudding, sweat tricking down, clogged throat, pulse in the ears, cold sweat, chills up/down the spine, stomach knotting, breathless, etc.

The Gory Bits

Instead of describing everything, limit yourself to particular details, keeping overall description short. Non-stop gore doesn't shock - its bores.

Create a contrast: the child's mutilated corpse still clutches the doll. The brains from the baby's plt skull spill across the fluffy pink blanket.

Use similes, comparing gruesome buts to something from ordinary life. The intestines look like spaghetti in tomato sauce. The blood spilling from the mouth looks like lipstick.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* . ───

💎If you like my blog, buy me a coffee☕ and find me on instagram!

💎Before you ask, check out my masterpost part 1 and part 2

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eggfriedricedwasian · 5 months ago

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Give me psychopathic killer Tim Drake in which Gotham and several other super hero infested cities all gain a new serial killer they have dubbed as "Smiler".

Why? Simple, when the killer leaves the crime scene, the body is totally and entirely mutilated, skin grafts made and missing, organs and bones missing here and there and it's no specifically chosen ones either, the rest of the organs and bones are strung up in the place of murder. But the reason for the name Smiler is because the head is decapitated and left in perfect condition other than a smile cut along the face in a Joker-Jeff-The-Killer-esque way that leaves even the unscared scared.

Why would Tim do this? For fun. He's very morally gray, kids are where he cuts the line, but everyone else for no reason at all? It's fun to him. So maybe he was hit a few times in the head too many with electrocution(This can be from regular crime fighting or Joker Jr or League of Assassins you decide), he finds it fun to do all of this methodically and leave people in shambles trying to figure it out.

But how is he able to do this? He, without anyone's knowledge and for fun, got a Ph.D and Doctorates in med school to be a licensed surgeon and what not. He still regularly performs surgery, he works as a surgeon 4 days of the week and no one knows because they think he's working at WE but really it's basically all Tam, he's just there to be the face and to provide good info. He's already reformed the board so he can do whatever.

Would the hero community ever find out? Up to you. Here's how I would picture them finding out;

Some girl gets cornered the bats, then starts rambling for whatever reason about them when they're trying to help her.

"If I want understanding I'd go to Batman.

If I want empathy I'd go to Nightwing.

If I wanted a presence I'd go to Robin.

If I wanted emotional stability I'd go to Red Hood.

If I wanted support I'd go to Spoiler.

If I wanted the truth I'd go to Black Bat.

But if I wanted someone murdered, I'd go to Red Robin."

And the pieces don't make sense, because who is this woman and how does she know or why does she think Red Robin, Batman's literal in-every sense-but-blood mini-me, is a murderer? He follows Batman's moral code like a god.

But then they start looking further into his life. As CEO, they find he's not working there often, only 3 days a week, specifically for meetings. They dig deeper and find that somewhere between now and his quest for Bruce he lost his spleen and got a Ph.D and Doctorates. When confronted he said it'd be good especially for on the field when there's no one to step in and help. Experience and trust in the field is a good thing, like Harley Quinn.

Knowing that, Bruce being paranoid starts learning a bit more about surgery, and then something brings up the Smiler killings. Bruce looks at the things about the Smiler's way of killing and compares it to a surgeon. The way of opening the body, removing skin, removing the organs, no inexperienced person without a surgical background would be able to do this. They would have destroyed the organs. Or at least damaged them in someway.

Bruce starts watching Tim closely, because the time he got the license in surgery is around the time the Smiler started killing.

It was inly confirmed when one slip up gave him away. A threat.

"I will surgically remove your organs and make it seem like an organ donation."

He said that to a Justice League member after getting into a dispute with them.

That started the questions. The first one was a trick question, it was supposed to only scare Tim into confessing. But Tim wasn't scared, he knew they didn't know and he knew this was a scare tactic, he knows interrogation. Yet he still confessed. He was happy to. Smiling like a psycho and everything.

"It started as a joke. Joke? Well, practice. A small time thug, a human sex trafficker. Red Hood was gonna kill him anyways, so I thought, "why not do it myself?", you know? I had the license, the experience, I needed more of the latter though. So I just started opening him up. Removing things little by little. It was fun. The decapitation and the smile was my little thing though. The missing organs, donated to science and to people who need them. So can you really say I'm doing something completely wrong?"

The detail Tim went into caused a few to lose their stomachs.

Tim, the psycho, was enjoying this.

(This could definitely play a part in Tim becomes Damian's Joker to his Batman. I saw a post about it somewhere.)

#tim drake #dc #batfam #bruce wayne #damian wayne #tim drake headcanon #batfam headcanons #jason todd #tim drake murder #joker junior tim drake #joker jr #dc joker #joker junior #psycho tim drake #sociopath tim drake #tim drake is a murderer

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hannie-dul-set · 6 months ago

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IT’S NOT WORTH TRYING TO LEARN OTHER PEOPLE’S LOVE LANGUAGES.

p — MYUNG JAEHYUN x fem! reader. g — humor, fluff, park sungho learns a lesson about minding his own business. w — swearing, death threats (as a form of flirting). 1.5k words.

requested by — @gluion “go kill yourself x “i’m pretty sure they have a crush on me”

note — part of my ship dynamics: insane edition gimmick. this is very the breakup soup coded. i just like writing about a bunch of idiots stressing about the dumpster fire love life of their friend. enjoy.

myung jaehyun’s friends are pretty sure he’s had a very stable, very loving, very normal upbringing.

“stop staring at me, you fucking creep.”

“sorry, i didn’t mean to make your heart flutter. can’t help it when you’re so pretty.”

“i’ll stab your fucking eyes out.”

“my eyes are all yours, pretty.”

so they can’t wrap their head around why he’s acting like he has not a single ounce of self-respect in his body. sungho and leehan watch as their pitiful friend gets shut down again by the most venomous glare, hostile sneer, deflected by the biggest pair of heart eyes in the world that’s ever longingly following your disappearing figure out the library door. “she wants me so bad,” he concludes with a self-righteous smile as he arranges his notes into one neat stack. sungho and leehan share a look. god almighty, please grant their friend wisdom and salvation.

“what...what makes you say that?” sungho attempts to prod. the first step to finding a solution is to figure out the situation. they need to know why myung jaehyun is so down bad for you, and why he’s so convinced that you feel the same way.

“huh?” jaehyun perks up. like he’s genuinely confused sungho has to ask that. “she was so flustered earlier. couldn’t you tell? it was adorable.”

“she threatened to mutilate you…?”

jaehyun beams. “she sure did.”

there...there is no point trying to understand him, sungho concludes. leehan is, for lack of a better word, getting mildly frustrated. “hyung, what the hell?” he raises. “if telling someone you want them dead is an indication of romantic feelings, then my middle school bullies must’ve been head over heels for me.”

a silence. a pause. “we’ll unpack that later,” sungho tells him. then shifts his attention back to problem child number one. “you. you’re a grown man who has full autonomy over his actions and feelings, and i know that. but as your friend, i just can’t keep watching you being disrespected, jaehyun. i can’t help but get angry on your behalf when you greet her good morning and alll she does is tell you to go fuck yourself!”

admittedly, sungho got a little bit heated at the end there. but he has every right to feel this emotion on behalf of his dense and seemingly unaffected friend— who is still sitting there, a smile on his face, hands on his lap like a patient buddha who has learned the true meaning of peace and serenity.

“sungho-yah,” jaehyun starts with a pleasant hum. “there’s no need to worry. the feeling is totally mutual. i’m telling you, she likes me back.”

speechless.

in fact, sungho and leehan are beyond speechless. they have no idea where this ungrounded certainty comes from. they certainly have even less of an idea on how to fix his lovesickness, bordering on insanity.

so, reasonably— they call for backup.

“the only way for him to get his shit together is if he asks her out for real and finally gets rejected for good,” taesan declares confidently. somehow, they see a point. riwoo lets out an echo of agreement. woonhak asks why they’re all excluding jaehyun from this after school garage meeting. “do you guys know when he’s planning on doing that?”

“no idea,” leehan answers. “but maybe we can pressure him into it.”

“so, should we encourage him instead of telling him to give it up?” sungho raises. taesan affirms. sungho lets out a grunt and a huff. “god, that’s gonna be tough.”

a resounding voice of dissent arises from woonhak. “i don’t get why you’re all going against jaehyun-hyung!” he yells indignantly. “let hyung love whoever he wants! this is a free country! you guys can’t dictate his love!”

“he’s received fuck you’s straight in the face and swears she’s flirting, woonhak. you’re too young to understand.”

it’s four votes against one. woonhak can’t win against his hyung’s determination to save myung jaehyun from his self-dug pit of pitifulness that he’d been in ever since laying eyes on you at the freshman orientation. god, they never should’ve went. he never should’ve shot down jaehyun’s suggestion to just skip it. maybe then, myung jaehyun would still be normal.

but this is not the time to lament and regret. it’s time for sungho to right his wrongs. it’s time to bring jaehyun’s self-respect back, they decide. and it starts with a wake-up call in the form of your inevitable, brutal rejection.

which, for some reason, does not happen as planned.

“what?”

“we’re going on a date.” jaehyun is as chipper as ever and sungho’s ears are starting to ring. “thanks for the encouragement, sungho!”

it’s ringing. it’s ringing so badly. “wait, what do you mean you’re going on a date?” he attempts to clarify, grabbing jaehyun by the shoulders because this is two-parts concerning, one-part kind of…proud? this guy actually succeeded? “she said yes? she didn’t tell you to fuck off and die in a hole?”

“she did. she looked pretty while saying it.” jaehyun answers with a bright grin. nevermind. this is all parts concerning. sungho “she also told me she’d kill me if i pick her up late after her class tomorrow. we’re going to have dinner at the thai restaurant that just opened. riwoo recommended it.”

sungho does not understand. he cannot understand because you, who seems to hate all of myung jaehyun’s guts for no discernible reason, agreed to go on a date with him? hello? has jaehyun been right this whole time? do you really reciprocate his feelings? or is this just some new form of torture? is his friend a masochist? is he the weird one for making a big fucking deal out of this? is this how relationships work nowadays?

a thought enters sungho’s mind.

hold on a second—

“anyway, i gotta go, dude. a pretty girl is waiting for me.”

—what if this date is a ploy for you to finally get the chance to kill him?

oh my god.

“wait!” sungho’s face is pale. his eyes are wide and frantic. “don’t—don’t go on the date!”

“hm?” jaehyun bats his eyes at him, taking a moment to think. then sparkles in realization. “oh! don’t worry. i’m not gonna show up looking like this. i’m gonna head home first to change.”

“that’s not the problem! jaehyun! no! no!”

this is it, his friend is going to die. that is, unless, he shows up on your date just in time to stop it. yes. there’s still a chance. he knows where the date is happening. he’s gonna tell the rest of them because there’s no way in hell they’d allow myung jaehyun’s cause of death to read stupidity by misconstruing your murderous intent as affection. they are not only going to save jaehyun’s life— but his dignity as well.

“remember, be quiet. be inconspicuous. they can’t figure out we’re here.”

hopefully, things go as planned this time. all five of them are gathered in a booth at the said thai restaurant, the eventual scene of the crime unless they do something about it. sungho is surveying the scene to find where you and jaehyun are seated. leehan nearly trips over his unnecessarily long trench coat while trying to cover more ground. woonhak is using the menu as cover but has since gotten distracted and has started to pick out his order with riwoo and taesan. “hyung, is the khao soi good?”

“yeah, we should order it.”

“what drinks should we get?”

this is hopeless. this is a mess. their best friend is about to die and all they can think about is dinner.

no matter. sungho can still take care of this himself. his eyes scan the main restaurant wing, from left to right, until his eyes double over in a screeching halt to the back of a very familiar round head—

“huh.”

the back of a very familiar round head that doesn’t seem to be facing the threat of decapitation.

sungho sees you and jaehyun sitting across from one another, jaehyun’s fairly loud voice raising over the music and utensils clattering, people chatting and passing by. “you’ve got something on your face.”

“touch my face, and i’ll kill y— hey!”

first of all, sungho wants to claw his own eyes out seeing his friend being disgustingly sweet. second, jaehyun did touch your face with a napkin and it does not seem like you’re attempting to murder him. in fact, you look flustered even. flushed despite the harbored glare, still seated despite your apparent derision and disgust. the back of jaehyun’s head looks exceedingly happy. the dots aren’t connecting. sungho is malfunctioning.

“should…should we interfere…?” leehan asks, his nose barely peeking out of the trench coat collar.

“i think...i think we should just leave them alone.”

“but isn’t his life in danger?”

“i misunderstood.”

forget misunderstanding. sungho can’t even behind to understand in the first place and has settled that he wouldn’t even try so long as myung jaehyun is happy— happy with being on the receiving end of fuck you’s and go to hell’s in response to his you’re so pretty’s and see you tomorrow’s, happy with getting his advances swatted away and shut down, happy with whatever the fuck is going on between you and him that sungho really can’t just wrap his head around.

IT’S NOT WORTH TRYING TO LEARN OTHER PEOPLE’S LOVE LANGUAGES. © hannie-dul-set, 2024.

#ship dynamics: insane edition #myung jaehyun x reader #jaehyun x reader #myung jaehyun fanfic #jaehyun fanfic #boynextdoor x reader #bnd x reader #boynextdoor jaehyun x reader #bnd jaehyun x reader #boynextdoor scenarios #bnd scenarios #bnd jaehyun scenarios #boynextdoor jaehyun scenarios #bnd imagines #myung jaehyun imagines

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venusbyline · 6 months ago

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Fates ࿐ྂ Kinktober. 22, oct.

(late post)

— pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x wife!reader

— type: smut, dark, Kinktober (House of the Dragon Edition)

— kink: spit kink

— summary: Jacaerys Velaryon had become the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and you had become his Queen Consort. Grief, sacrifice and pain carried the weight of crowns. The daily tragedies would happen forever until one of you died. This was the true destiny of the Greens and Blacks. There were never victors after the war. The eternal unhappiness was the only conquest.

— word count: 2.3k

— tags/warnings: kinktober 22nd day, Targcest (aunt/nephew), female!reader, queen consort!reader, king!Jacaerys, dark!Jacaerys, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, spit kink, rape/non-con, degradation, rough sex, gore, referenced mutilated penis, nipple play, nipple torture, blood and violence, blood kink, vaginal sex, anal sex, hate sex, implied PTSD, biting, hair-pulling, vaginal fingering, anal fingering, VERY DARK CONTENT, hurt no comfort, mild angst, light unconscious sex, ambiguous/open ending (but it would probably be a sad or bittersweet ending), curse words, death threats, sexism, crying, dacryphilia, mild dumbification, referenced permanent injury, mild aftercare (BUT NOT REALLY), past genital torture, Jacaerys also lost an eye, fake character death, emotional manipulation, sadism, breast worship, forced orgasm, marriage of convenience, forced marriage, sexual and psychological torture, survivors guilt, male infertility, Jacaerys Velaryon lives, Jaehaera Targaryen lives, Baela Targaryen dies, forced child marriage mentioned, minor Jaehaera Targaryen/Aegon III Targaryen, past Jacaerys Velaryon/Baela Targaryen, past Aemond Targaryen/reader, mild Stockholm syndrome, age gap (older woman/younger man), Jace's 17 during 131 AC and 21 during 135 AC, reader's 21 during 131 AC and 25 during 135 AC, dom!Jacaerys, sub!reader, canon divergence (The Blacks win the Dance of the Dragons), porn with plot. no use of y/n. english is not my first language.

— tagging list: @baybaybear1 @blessedbymoon @p45510n4f4shi0n @lina-lovebug @moonnicole @badger-reads @turdettethefirst

— crossposting: AO3

"The King ordered your presence into his private chambers, Your Grace. Immediately."

The maid's voice brought you out of your almost peaceful sleep. Before the war, you loved having the calm to sleep and get plenty of rest whenever you could, away from the trivial duties of Royalty. Before, you loved going to sleep and waking up with your nephews laughing and playing on your bed, trying to wake you up by the most messy and childish possible ways. Jaehaerys, Jaehaera and Maelor were like your children too, you helped your older sister to take care of them, often more present in their lives than Aegon himself, who was always just focused on fucking whores or harassing the castle's servants.

During the Dance of the Dragons, you almost went crazy, also like Helaena. As if the cruel murder of your nephew Jaehaerys was not enough, you were also forced to marry your twin brother, Aemond, who ended up dying during The Battle Above the Gods Eye along with your uncle Daemon, turning you into widow at just twenty years old in that time. Your half-sister Rhaenyra's death was inevitable, as were the deaths of nearly every member of the Targaryen family. However, Rhaenyra's bloodline continued on the throne after the mysterious poisoning of your older brother Aegon II during 131 AC. When the Blacks took back the Iron Throne, your greatest concern would be not only the fact that your other nephew, Aegon III, son of your half-sister and your uncle Daemon, could ascend as the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms at such a young age, but also the fact of what would happen to you and your little niece Jaehaera, who had the tragic fate of marrying the boy even though they were both children, as a stupid attempt at a peace treaty between the Blacks and Greens.

To your surprise, it was not Aegon III who ascended the Iron Throne, much less little Jaehaera or even you. But Jacaerys Velaryon, Rhaenyra Targaryen's firstborn and her legitimized heir, the one that everyone believed for almost two years that he was dead. On that horrifying afternoon, you were sure that the new king would order your death and the death of your niece. Which never happened. You did not know how Jacaerys had survived after the Battle of the Gullet, but despite the possible cruel fate that awaited you, you were grateful that His Grace was a man of his word and swore to keep Jaehaera alive and safe in King's Landing, not breaking up the marriage between her and his little brother, Aegon III, but also giving his word that the two children only would be able to consummate their marriage years later and did not need to act as a couple while they were still so young. After all, Jacaerys might want revenge on your family at all costs, but that did not mean he was in favor of murder or allowing the rape of a little girl, in a certain way.

Even during 135 AC, four years after the coronation of the current ruler, Jaehaera remained alive and safe, protected by her brother-in-law and cousin. Your nephew and husband. The new King. And for that, your fate was forever sealed as the second wife of King Jacaerys Velaryon, the first of his name.

"Lady Wife!" Jacaerys shouted with exaggerated excitement as he lay on the bed, completely naked but covered by the silk sheets. "I see the maids did not disappoint me again this time."

You took a deep breath, remembering the week before when he yelled at the servants for taking so long to bring you to your shared chambers. It had been unnecessary and agonizing to watch how people cowered in the face of his threats. The once kind and sweet Prince Jacaerys had become such a rude and merciless King since the death of his family. You could not blame him, even if you preferred to be able to.

"They were quick to bathe me and get me ready to see you." Your tone was monotonous, without emotion or affection. It was always like this. A slow death sentence you signed for the sake of your niece Jaehaera. You were used to this exhausting routine. Lying with Jacaerys when he was drunk, angry with the duties of his reign and the weight of the crown, as well as the grief that tormented his mind every night, indulging in wine or pleasure houses to try to avoid insanity which was approaching him little by little.

Both of you never knew each other very well before the marriage of convenience. You had interacted with Jace just a few times before the Dance of the Dragons, the last time being at that disastrous Viserys's supper, when Jace tried to be polite and ask Helena and then you for a dance, but his kindness only ended up making Aegon and Aemond jealous about Hel and you, causing more chaos between your families.

You might not know much about Jacaerys. However, it was obvious that the war had changed his personality. Now, he was colder, far from the soft boy who once made you chuckle dancing with him in an almost clumsy way. Now, Jace just saw you as a prize won due to the war, even if you were his second wife. He had lost everyone, even Baela.

Not that he really loved her, but there was affection and protection there. Political marriages that turned into true affectionate feelings. If only Baela had not died during the labor of their stillborn son... Perhaps he would have truly loved her as time passed. Perhaps he would have heirs now and would not need to sleep with you. Or almost that.

"You are so fucking stand-off right now, My Queen." The King muttered mockingly, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he took another sip from the wine cup, motioning for you to approach the bed. With a sigh, you walk in silence, taking off your white nightgown you wore and sitting on his lap carefully, looking at him. Jace had intense marks spread across his body and face, scars that you wanted to caress if only he did not despise you as hell.

This adult version of him reminded you of your brother and ex-husband Aemond. The unexpected parallel between the uncle and the nephew was interesting. Both men missing one of their eyes. Aemond One-Eye, Jacaerys One-Eye. But there was no sapphire inside your current husband's eye socket. After reclaiming what was rightfully his, Jace ordered a black obsidian to be molded to fit there. A sadder version of your brother and ex-husband.

You missed Aemond, even if he was not a good husband and refused to breed you until the end of the war. Jacaerys missed Baela, even if he did not have any romantic feelings for her.

"I wish I could breed you with my heirs." Jace murmured, brushing away the silver hair that was in front of your face, taking in your delicate features for a moment. "I wonder if they would have silky light hairs like yours, or if they would be cursed with my dark hair."

His words made you curl into his lap, biting the lip to ward off a pained whining when he grabbed a handful of your silver strands, as if he wanted to rip them out completely and make you swallow every single one of them later. "I wish I still had my cock, then I would fuck you until your cunt swelled and was sore. I would hear you screaming and crying every night, begging me to stop hurting you while your tight little cunt would be constantly bleeding and milking me. And guess what? I would never stop. I WOULD NEVER STOP! I would be turned on seeing my seed leaking from all your holes and you screaming for my mercy just like the disgusting brothel whores."

The sickly macabre sentences caught you off guard and he pushed you under the bed, climbing on top of you, now without the sheets covering the absence of his cock, just the bad stitches and the almost huge nauseating scar where the Greens had ripped off his big and delightful penis. The length that Jacaerys always boasted about as a teenager. He would probably be the next Realm's Delight, just like his mother had been. But now all he had to content himself with was fucking you with his large fingers or his tongue, kissing you aggressively, always biting your lips or your breasts until they bleed, covered with light scars, just like he did with the whores from the brothels. "You should always be my own brood mare. I should force myself on you and make you carry my children every year until you learned to enjoy it. To enjoy me. TO LOVE ME!"

In that same second, as if he could read your mind, Jacaerys spat in the middle of your breasts and pinched your nipples with both hands between index fingers and thumbs, making you scream as he twisted them hard. "I should rip off your own nipples and make yourself eat them for dinner. I should fuck your nasty cunt with the blade of my sword until your womb tears, being disemboweled from the inside. I should kill you like your damn family killed mine." He shouted angrily, hitting your face once before squeezing your chin, forcing you to part your lips so he could spit the wine-tasting saliva onto your tongue. "SWALLOW IT! THIS IS AN ORDER FROM YOUR TRUE KING!"

He yelled, forcing you to obey after the next three slaps he gave you, without even letting you breathe. You swallowed his spit, your tears flowing in panic and your heart racing from it all. Jace's newly acquired cruelty was no longer a surprise to you, but sometimes your attempt at apathy faded and you let your sad emotions take control. You continued crying as the King spat in your face two more times, not even trying to clean up his disgusting mess on your cheeks and just allowing his hands to hurt your aching cunt, his slender fingers fucking you without any care, probably drawing blood while you bit your lip and closed your eyes, trying hard not to pay attention to anything. Trying hard not feeling anything or thinking about anything. Trying hard not to admire the scars on his handsome face or the dark jewel inside his empty eye.

You needed to keep Jaehaera safe. After the death of your sister Helaena, Jaehaera was no longer just your niece, she was also your daughter now. She was the only good thing in whole your life and you needed to protect her, even if it meant sacrificing your body and mind. You wondered if this was how your Lady Mother Alicent felt everytime your stupid father Viserys fucked her since she was just a teenager girl. In those years ago, did Alicent feel violated? Raped? Disgusted with her husband, with the world and mainly with herself? Did she also feel guilty and think she deserved those so cruel acts? But... did Alicent also feel empathy even about the man who hurt her?

Alicent Hightower was a broodmare for Viserys Targaryen. However, Jacaerys Velaryon could not procreate and get you pregnant with his seed. So you did not know what that made you. Just an object to be used and abused by him? Beaten until one day he finally had enough and murdered you? Until the little Aegon III getting older and inherits the Iron Throne due to his older brother's lack of heirs?

Would this be Jaehaera's fate too? Being just a Queen Consort and a whore inside the private chambers against her own will? Was this the fate of all women?

The hours passed in a blur, despite you being conscious the entire time, you decided to keep your thoughts empty and away from the cruel reality, preferring not to staring Jace. You did not realize how messy and filthy your face was with the King's saliva until you felt Jacaerys's hands caressing your cheeks with panic, trying to clean up the violence he made, his own fingers being full of your cum and the blood that had come out so much from your cunt and from your ass, both tight holes bleeding and hurting like the Seven Hells.

"Gods, I am so sorry." Jace sobbed, keeping to wipe your face. You saw how his eye became even more prettier filled with crystal clear tears, his cheeks red from crying. "I am so sorry, My Queen. I did not mean... I did not mean to be like this. I did not want to be a monster. I just want my family back. I just want to be able to be a good husband, I just want to be a father. I did not want to be that kind of King." Jacaerys hugged your tired and vulnerable form, his naked body shaking from the intense bout of crying as he searched your mouth to kiss you softly, as a way to compensate. The kiss tasted like tears, cum and blood. But you did not care. "Oh, Gods. Please, forgive me. Forgive me, aunt." You let him kiss you with some tenderness while he was apologizing in the midst of despair. You knew everything all too well. All of this would happen again in just a few days.

Jacaerys Velaryon had become the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and you had become his Queen Consort. Grief, sacrifice and pain carried the weight of crowns. The daily tragedies would happen forever until one of you died. This was the true destiny of the Greens and Blacks. There were never victors after the war. The eternal unhappiness was the only conquest.

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batsovergotham · 7 days ago

Text

the unmasking pt1

"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: angst, hurt some comfort, murder, cecil is his own warning, mark is such a caring ex bf

w/c: 7.5k

a/n: next chapter is gonna be so fluffy and smutty since its a flashback chapter. yall deserve a break!!

The camera feed shakes before it stabilizes. In the backdrop, studio lights hum softly; the distant noise of disorder from the city outside these walls seeps in like a ghost. Before the picture even comes into focus, you are familiar with the voice, booming, self-important, and clearly gravelly.

Already mid-rant, J. Jonah Jameson, mustache bristling and suit wrinkled in a manner that shouts "I didn't sleep last night and I like it that way,"

"This city is rotting," he shouts, waving angrily to some off-screen picture that, minutes later, shows in the upper-right corner: a murky snapshot of an alley roped off by NYPD tape. The corner's timestamp says 5:02 a.m., yesterday morning. “And while our so-called heroes prance around in spandex like it’s Comic-Con every damn day of the week, innocent people are dying in the streets.”

He pounds the desk with his palm. Papers shake. Somewhere, a struggling intern winces.

“Three corpses. Three. Mutilated. Torn apart. Half-eaten.” He leans in like he’s daring you, daring the city, to look away. “These weren’t gang hits. These weren’t carjackings gone bad. We’re discussing something different. Something inhuman.”

He shifts now, snatching a remote and pressing a button like he’s intending to put a hole in it. The screen behind him flashes again, a shadowy form from a shaky mobile phone recording. A gigantic, enormous figure bulging amid buildings. Its body gleams moist and inky black under faint streetlights, and for a brief instant, white eyes sparkle in the gloom. The vision is grainy, the audio worse, panicked yells, distant sirens but it's enough.

“There!” Jameson stabs a finger at the screen. “That thing. That’s not a man. That’s not a mutant. That’s not some ‘enhanced vigilante’ playing hero.”

He pulls a breath. “That, ladies and gentlemen, is Venom. And it’s real.”

His voice lowers low, heavy with dramatics. “For weeks, I’ve been warning you. And for weeks, you’ve dubbed me a conspiracy nut. A crackpot. Said I needed to ‘chill out’ and ‘touch grass.’ Well, you can keep your grass, since the truth is right in front of you.”

A pause. Just long enough to let everything sink in.

“And don’t even try to tell me it’s a coincidence this monster shows up right when our dear Spider-Woman goes radio silent. Disappears for days, then reappears, violent. Unhinged. More aggressive than ever before.”

He smacks another button. Footage plays on the side screen now. Not shaky mobile phone footage, this is security cam. Spider-Woman lunging down from a fire escape, a guy screaming underneath her. She doesn’t murder him, no. But she doesn’t exactly hold back either. The screen hides the worst of it, but you can still see the blood spattering on the sidewalk. Her outfit is odd, too. Darker. Shinier. As if something’s covering it, something living.

Jameson doesn’t even blink. “Tell me that’s the same girl who used to pull kids from burning buildings. Who waved at news helicopters. Who posed for photographs with kids. That thing isn’t Spider-Woman. That monster is a threat.”

Another slam. Another graphic. This time, side-by-side images. One of Spider-Woman from a few weeks ago, bright and clean-cut, mask curved in a loving smile as she presented an autographed poster to a Make-A-Wish kid. And beside it, the vision from yesterday’s chaos, sharp fangs bared, a tongue snaking out of the shadows, claws curled and slick with someone’s blood.

“She’s changed,” he growls. “Or maybe, this is who she’s been all along.”

He leans forward, palms splayed over the tabletop, gaze keen as broken glass.

“Think about it. Who else might be lurking behind that mask? Someone the public trusts. Someone who knows how to influence the press. Someone who’s had you all eating out of the palm of her hand since the day she showed up. Always smiling. Always rescue cats from trees. Well guess what?”

He jabs a finger toward the screen again. “Kittens don’t leave half a corpse in an alleyway.”

A moment, then he sneers.

“I warned you about Iron-Man, and look how that turned out. And now we’ve got his warped little female protégé wandering about like she’s auditioning for a horror flick. Let’s call it what it is, folks. Venom is Spider-Woman. Or worse, Venom is within her.”

The studio gets colder with his stillness. He lets the sentence hang there like a guillotine ready to descend.

“She’s hiding something. And I guarantee, when we get the truth, when the mask eventually comes off, it’s going to be worse than anything we’ve seen before.”

He takes up a sheet of paper, hardly glancing at it before slapping it back down. “Sources close to the NYPD are already saying the alley killings show signs of predation. Bite marks. Human tissue missing.” His lip curls. “We’re not talking about a mugging. We’re talking about feeding.”

The studio displays another image, a crime scene shot blurred to hell and back. Just enough to make it safe for television. But even blurred, it’s apparent. The contour of a jawbone stripped clean. Fingers severed off the hand. Clothes torn like tissue paper. There’s a blood trail that goes for a whole city block.

Jameson leans back, voice now low and iron-hot. “And still, no one’s talking. No statement from the mayor. No news announcement from the GDA. And don’t even get me started on Cecil Stedman. You believe he’s not connected somehow? Every time something incomprehensible happens, there he is, smiling behind the curtain.”

He moves again, gaze cutting straight through the camera like he’s gazing directly at you.

“You want to know what’s worse than monsters in the shadows? The individuals who guard them. Who enable them. Who call them heroes.”

A lengthy beat. One more image flashes behind him, this one isn’t from the alley. This one is just… a frame. Mid-leap. Spider-Woman silhouetted against the moon, web trailing behind her. For a minute, it’s gorgeous. Then the eyeballs flare white again.

“I see what’s coming,” he adds. “And it’s not salvation.”

Jameson straightens his tie. Brushes a hand down his lapel. The fire in his chest doesn’t dim, it never dims, but for now, he coaches his face into something frigid. Certain.

“I don’t care how many kids she’s saved. I don’t care how many photogenic moments she’s had with the press. If she’s part of this, if she is this thing, then she doesn’t deserve our quiet. She doesn’t deserve our faith. She doesn’t deserve our forgiveness.”

He punches the air once more, his voice booming:

“She deserves to be unmasked. And held accountable.”

The screen rushes back from commercial with no dramatic music, no anchor-friendly grins or warm welcomes, just frigid haste and Jonah’s silhouette already mid-turn in his seat, mouth tense. There’s something unsettling about seeing a man like him calm. Not because it’s pleasant, but because when J. Jonah Jameson is quiet, it implies the storm has already passed furious and settled into something far more dangerous. Conviction.

“Let’s talk about patterns,” he begins, voice like gravel scraped against metal. “Because Spider-Woman didn’t just change. This didn’t come out of nowhere. The signs were there. The escalation was right in front of us, and we looked the other way.”

Behind him, new footage plays. A montage. Grainy security recordings. Blurry street cam pictures. Cell phone captures, most ending suddenly in screaming. The camera portrays you like a shadow dashing through alleys, plummeting from roofs. Some clips conclude with a haze. Others stop exactly as you knock someone into concrete, shoulders, necks, ribs splitting like twigs.

“People said she was getting more efficient.” Jameson doesn’t look at the screen, he stares right into the camera, into you. “More ruthless. Less chatter, more takedown. And certainly, the city adored it at first. Crime reduced in such communities. Until the bodies started piling up.”

A fresh headline appears across the screen in blood-red font:

SPIDER-WOMAN “CROSSING THE LINE”? LOCAL MAN IN COMA AFTER ALTERCATION WITH VIGILANTE.

“Twenty-three-year-old Jamal Reynolds,” Jameson reads, his voice harsh. “Minor drug possession. Not trafficking. Not armed robbery. Just a kid with a couple priors and a rough night. What does Spider-Woman do? She tosses him through a windshield. He's currently in a coma with severe brain damage. Doctors claim the swelling on his brain didn’t originate from the impact, it came from many fractures.”

Another image. A hospital bed, a young man’s face bloated beyond recognition. His mother crying at his side.

“No charges filed,” Jameson replies, teeth clinched. “No accountability. Because once upon a time, she smiled at a fireman’s fundraiser and kissed a baby for a photo op.”

The screen switches again. Another name. Another face.

"SHE NEARLY KILLED ME." — FORMER GANG MEMBER DESCRIBES TERRIFYING RUN-IN WITH SPIDER-WOMAN.

“She doesn't talk anymore,” the man adds in a weak interview, his voice barely audible. “Doesn't say anything. Just… hisses. You don’t even notice her approaching. There’s a sound, like something wet dragging across metal, and suddenly she’s on you. You blink, and she’s in your face. She bit my shoulder. Bit it. Through the jacket.”

A still shot reveals the wound. It's ragged, tattered. Not a clean strike, like an animal had gnawed at him, mouth unhinged.

Jameson doesn’t blink.

“And we’re supposed to believe this is the same girl who handed out teddy bears and webbed up purse snatchers like some neighborhood mascot?”

He leans forward, fixing his tie like the activity is keeping him linked to something other than primal wrath.

“They’re calling it ‘lethal restraint,’” he scoffs. “The NYPD has at least seven ongoing investigations into incidents where her methods were described as ‘borderline fatal.’ At least three others are under review by the GDA itself, and you know how infrequently they even admit anything’s under review.”

Footage plays of a warehouse bust. Flames lick at the edge of the screen, and through the smoke, she flows like liquid shadow, silent, scary, unstoppable. You watch the silhouette of her arm jerk as she smacks someone against a steel beam. The scream breaks off midway.

“She isn’t arresting these people,” Jameson continues. “She isn’t dropping them off in front of police stations, gift-wrapped and webbed. She leaves them broken. Bruised. One of them has spinal injury. The other suffers lung trauma. One of them, God help us, was missing a bit of his thigh.”

And yet, every time they bring this up, someone’s always ready to leap to her defense. The same justifications, again and over again.

“But they were criminals.”

“She saved a bus full of kids last week.”

“She’s just going through something.”

“She’s a hero.”

Jameson laughs, harsh, humorless.

“I don’t care if she cured cancer and kissed Mother Teresa on the mouth. If she’s stalking people, if she’s feeding on people, if she’s hurting more than she’s helping, then she’s not a hero. She’s a threat.”

The screen flickers to one last picture. A hazy close-up from a drone, captured the night of the alley killings. A streak of white, fanged and grinning, splattered with blood. Your eyes are pitch dark, your stance hunched and horrible. Your mouth is wide open and her tongue is exposed, unusually long. You can’t even tell where her flesh finishes and the suit begins.

It’s not Spider-Woman.

It’s something donning your face.

“Ask yourself,” Jameson adds, gently now. The words felt weighty. Almost like a plea. “How long until she stops pretending to protect us at all? How long till she turns that hunger on the people who used to root for her?”

He sighs. Tired. Angry. Certain.

“They used to say power corrupts. That total authority corrupts absolutely.” His eyes narrow. “But no one ever tells you what happens when the corruption feeds back. When it becomes something else. Something alive.”

His last remarks seem like a final verdict.

“She’s not the hero anymore.”

The camera cuts to black.

But you can still hear it.

That thin, moist, slithering sound.

Something slithering beneath the quiet.

Something waiting.

The fluorescent lights in the GDA war room buzz above like they’re anxious too. The air within the steel cylinder is tight with tension, filtered and recycled and antiseptic in a way that makes you feel more like a weapon than a human. On the main display, a blown-up still frame of Spider-Woman looms above them all, fangs bared, mouth split too wide, eyes like polished obsidian. It seems more like a mugshot of a monster than a hero.

Cecil Stedman stands at the head of the table, hands planted on a holographic display throbbing with red-lit data. For once, he isn’t grinning beneath his constant five o’clock shadow. He looks… weary. Even behind the tiredness of his eyes, there’s something empty about his countenance. Like he’s staring at someone already gone.

"She’s crossed the line."

His voice isn’t elevated, but it doesn’t need to be.

All around the table, the Guardians of the Globe sit stiff. Or restless. Or both.

Bulletproof’s jaw is tense, a vein flickering in his temple. Dupli-Kate stares down at her own hands like she’s trying to press away the shame that’s started to fester beneath her skin. Black Samson is inscrutable, arms crossed over his chest like a wall, yet even he’s breathing deeper than normal. Shrinking Rae, poised on the edge of a chair far too big for her, mutters something that’s cut short by a quick flick of Cecil’s hand.

Robot talks first.

"Has she communicated at all since the incident in Queens?"

Cecil’s cybernetic lens flickers. “No. We’ve had no contact. No sightings in twenty-four hours. Which is… even more frightening, given what she did the last time she was seen.”

Another display lights up with blurry imagery. The alley. The three victims.

There’s quiet.

Eve glances aside, jaw gritted. “This can’t be her. Not the girl who dragged a kid out of a burning apartment with a smile on her face. Not the girl who-”

“is now tearing men in half like wrapping paper,” Cecil cuts in, forceful. “We don’t have the luxury of sentimental denial right now. This isn’t a PR disaster. This is an increasing bio-threat with extraterrestrial origins and unexpected neurological influence.”

“She’s not an alien,” Mark adds from where he’s standing at the back. He’s not sitting. He can’t. His hands are clinched at his sides and his voice is gruff, laced with something just shy of rage. “She’s not one of them. It’s… something else. Something that got into her.”

Cecil turns to him, slow. “And how do you know that, Grayson?”

Mark doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t need to.

The way he’s holding himself, shoulders pulled in like something is clawing at his ribs, it’s enough. It’s written all over him. There’s history here. Personal. Messy.

The type of stuff that gets people killed if it’s let to cloud judgment.

Robot’s mechanical voice crackles again. “The symbiote shows signs of parasitic bonding. If the host’s intellect is weakened, it’s not an issue of identification anymore. It’s an issue of containment.”

"And if containment fails?" Bulletproof asks bluntly, arms crossed, muscles tight and stiff.

That’s the question that’s been sitting in the center of the room like a ticking bomb.

Cecil breaths out, then hits a switch on the display. New slides replace the footage. Strategic layouts. Names. Resources. Weapon kinds. Containment levels.

And finally, at the bottom of the file. TERMINATION PROTOCOL. SUBJECT VENOM: STAGE 5 INFILTRATION

“She's not just killing,” Cecil explains. “She’s feeding. We found tissue samples from the alley. Not just blood, saliva. Digestion enzymes. She’s metabolizing human materials. That’s hardly a tactical error. That’s not adrenaline. That’s predatory adaptation.”

"She's not that far gone," Mark snaps. “I know her. This isn’t her. We can fix it.”

“She bit someone’s face off, Mark,” Samson grinds out. “At what point do we stop calling it a misunderstanding?”

“Is there a way to extract the symbiote?” Eve asks, turning to Robot, her voice tinged with the same frantic note Mark had, but better concealed behind the trained calm she’s learned over years of losing people.

Robot pauses. “Not without risking the host’s life. The link appears to be neurological, not just physical. Attempting forceful separation would certainly result in significant brain harm. Possibly death.”

“Then don’t force it,” Mark replies, coming forward. “Let me talk to her.”

“No,” Cecil replies, and this time his voice slashes the air like a knife.

Mark rounds on him. “You don’t even know what you’re dealing with-”

“I know exactly what I’m dealing with. I’m dealing with a ticking bomb in a skin-tight outfit that’s already blown up three bystanders and is revving up for more.”

Cecil moves closer, his tone low and lethal.

“You think this is about trust? About friendship? You think if you talk to her, she’ll suddenly snap out of it? This isn’t an teenage drama, Mark. This is war. And if she’s already attached to that thing, if she’s already begun changing, then she’s not your friend anymore.”

Mark flinches. Eve stares between them, like she’s ready to jump in, to stop anything before it breaks wide open. But she doesn’t. No one does. Because the truth is festering in all their stomaches. They don’t know what you are anymore.

Kate eventually speaks, her voice quiet. “So… what’s the plan?”

Cecil glances back at the files. Two folders are lying on the screen. One green. One red.

“Plan A. Containment,” he says. “We isolate the subject. Use sonic weapons and electromagnetic pulses. Designed by Robot, derived from Kree tech intercepted last year. We subjugate the symbiote. Secure the host.”

“And Plan B?” Bulletproof asks, already knowing.

“Plan B,” Cecil replies coldly, “is we take her out. Clean. Fast. Before she can spread it. Before the creature inside her finds a new host.”

Silence deepens again.

Robot’s optics flash. “I recommend both contingencies be prepared simultaneously. Deployment time may be the determining element in casualty prevention.”

And Mark? Mark merely stares at the picture still shining behind the display. Not the monster. Not the swirl of black and fangs. But the one before that. The woman who laughed with him under a streetlight. Who joked with him like he was the only thing preventing her from plummeting over the edge of the planet.

“Don’t do this,” he says. It’s scarcely more than a whisper. “She’s still in there. I know it.”

Cecil doesn’t answer.

The red folder remains on the screen.

Unopened.

For now.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

The sofa lowers slightly beneath your weight as you move, drawing one leg up and resting your elbow on your knee. One of Harry’s hoodies drapes off your frame, sleeves bunched over your wrists. There’s dried blood on the hem. You haven’t attempted to disguise it. You haven’t even glanced in a mirror.

The place smells like that expensive fragrance he wears, warm and clean and chemical. The sort that clings to a person like they’re attempting to keep a mask on even while they sleep. You wonder if it’s soothing to him. If it helps him imagine he’s still a normal guy.

He hasn’t talked anything since you got here. He didn’t inquire why you showed up without notice, or why you looked like you crawled out of a murder scene. He simply opened the door. Let you in.

Now he’s standing at the window, arms crossed, gaze on the skyline like it’s got the answers he doesn’t know how to ask for.

“You gonna say something?” you mutter.

Harry turns slightly, his features crisp in the faint light. “I’m trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to say.”

You extend your leg out, kicking off your boots. “ Try opening with, ‘Damn, you look good. Did you lose weight?’”

Harry’s jaw tenses. “You look like you killed someone.”

You gaze up at him. Smirk. “Three someones, actually.”

His eyes narrow. “Jesus.”

“Relax,” you murmur, reclining back. “They were assholes. Caught them trying to pull a girl into a car. No masks, no weapons. Just normal, scum-of-the-earth trash. I handled it.”

“You didn’t just ‘handle it,’” he snaps. “You ripped them apart.”

You gaze at him. Then shrug.

“They got off easy.”

There’s a long quiet.

Harry runs a hand through his hair and mutters, “You don’t even sound like yourself.”

“Maybe this is me.”

“No.” He approaches over, laying his hands on the back of the recliner across from you. “This is you with a parasite talking in your head twenty-four-seven. Don’t pretend like that doesn’t matter.”

You snort. “Does it? I feel clearer now. Stronger. All the noise, the second guessing, the self-hate, it’s just gone.”

Harry observes you for a beat. “So you’re fine with it? The voice? The black goo taking over your body? You’re just alright with it now?”

You smile. “Well, it is flattering.”

‘We are flattered,’ the voice hums, warm and smug in your mind.

You roll your eyes. “See? He appreciates me.”

Harry blinks. “He?”

‘We like this one,’ the voice purrs. ‘He smells… expensive.’

You moan beneath your breath. “Don’t be weird.”

‘We’re not being strange. He’s lovely. He doesn’t yell. He has hair like a golden retriever.’

Harry’s eyebrows raise gently. “It’s… talking to me now, isn’t it?”

You groan and climb to your feet. “Yeah. You’re its new favorite person. Try not to let it get to your head.”

Harry doesn’t flinch as you stroll past him, barefoot, hoodie hanging just slightly off your shoulder. He watches you pace, silent.

“How long’s it been like this?”

You shrug. “Since the alley. Since before that, maybe. It’s hard to tell. Some nights I feel like I’m still dreaming. Other nights I’m fully awake and just… watching myself from across the room.”

He steps forward. “That’s not nothing. You’re still in there. That part of you, the one watching, it means you haven’t lost yourself.”

You give him a peek over your shoulder. “Don’t give me a pep talk, Harry. I didn’t come here to be saved.”

“You came here because you don’t want to be alone.”

You blink.

You turn, gently.

And instead of rejecting it, you remark, “It’s quiet here.”

Harry walks over. Not fast. Just enough to be near. “You’re safe here.”

You chuckle, low and bitter. “I’m not.”

“You are to me.”

‘We should say something,’ the voice pushes. ‘He needs to see us. The real us.’

You tilt your head, contemplating.

Then you announce, without warning. “It wants to meet you.”

Harry hesitates. “I… what?”

And then, the darkness spreads.

Not brutally. Not in an eruption of fangs and tentacles. But like a darkness pouring from your flesh. It crawls across your shoulders, up your neck, out from your jaw. The room goes still. The symbiote rips away just enough to develop its own shape, attached to you, but clearly its own. Heavy. Massive. Towering.

Harry doesn’t run. He doesn’t yell. He just watches. The monster standing in front of him opens its eyes, unimaginably wide. Then smiles.

“HELLO, HARRY.”

Harry stares. “Right. Yeah. Definitely not weird.”

“WE HAVE BEEN WATCHING YOU.”

“Uh-huh.”

“YOU ARE VERY… LOYAL.”

Venom leans in. You remain still behind it, expression unreadable.

“WE LIKE YOU.”

Harry blinks. “I don’t know whether to say thank you or start praying.”

Venom laughs. A deep, moist, rumbling thing that resonates in your chest.

“WE DON’T WANT TO HURT YOU. YOU ARE IMPORTANT TO HER.”

You speak out again, voice still part-morphed. “It means you’re off the menu.”

“That’s… reassuring.”

Venom’s grin doesn’t fade.

“YOU MAKE HER FEEL SAFE. SHE WON’T SAY IT. BUT WE KNOW.”

You close your eyes. Just for a second.

Because it’s true.

Because it’s always been true.

Harry watches you as the blackness begins to creep back into your flesh, like smoke reversing course.

And when you’re standing there again, fully yourself, at least on the outside, he advances closer.

“You could’ve gone anywhere tonight,” he says. “But you came here.”

You cross your arms. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“I won’t,” he says. “But I’m not going anywhere, either.”

You gaze at him. “Even if I screw this up?”

“Especially then.”

You pause. Then mumble, “You’re loyal to a fault, y’know that?”

Harry grins. “Yeah. But I make great eggs.”

You grin, tiny yet sincere. And when the calm comes back, it seems a bit less weighty. Because you’re not alone. And neither is it.

The eggs are cold by now.

Your fork hangs loosely in your palm, forgotten. Across from you, Harry’s abandoned his plate altogether. You’re both leaning on the kitchen island now, hoodie sleeves bunched over your wrists, a dull ache growing at the base of your brain. Venom is silent. Watching.

You haven’t talked for a few minutes. And that’s when Harry breaks it.

“So…”

You don’t look up. He clears his throat. “Are we gonna talk about it, or do I have to say his name first?”

You blink carefully, then raise your eyes to meet his. “Depends. Which name are we talking about?”

“Mark.”

You squeeze your lips together. A beat.

And then you respond, “Of course we are.”

Harry rests on his elbows, expression inscrutable. “He hasn’t called, has he?”

You shrug, nonchalant. “Haven’t exactly been glued to my phone.”

“He used to call every night.”

You gaze at him. “That was before I got a little murdery.”

Harry doesn’t flinch. He only tilts his head slightly. “You think that’s why he hasn’t checked in?”

You chuckle, bitter. “No. I guess he hasn’t checked in because something’s wrong with him.”

Harry’s stare sharpens. “You noticed that too?”

You nod slowly, eyes distracted. “It’s subtle. But… yeah. He’s different. The way he looks at people now. Like he’s trying to measure them. Or categorize them. Like he’s always one step out of the room, even when he’s standing right in front of you.”

Harry frowns. “He used to be so-”

“Present.” You complete it for him. “Yeah.”

‘He is not like us,’ the voice says. ‘But he is not human either. We do not trust him.’

You brush your thumb across your temple. “The suit doesn’t like him.”

Harry blinks. “Seriously?”

You nod. “Every time I see him, it tenses. Like it’s on alert. And it never does that around you. Even when you were poking at me like I was a science fair project.”

“I was gentle.”

You grin faintly. “Barely.”

Then your grin fades.

You gaze into your water glass for a time. “There’s something he’s not telling me.”

Harry’s voice is soft. “You think it’s about you?”

“No,” you answer, shaking your head. “It’s not about me. It’s in him. Something deeper. Something he’s burying. But the craziest part? I think he’s scared.”

“Of what?”

You glance up. “Of what happens if I find out.”

Harry exhales. “That’s… a hell of a thing to feel coming from your boyfriend.”

You snort. “Was.”

“You’re still calling it quits?”

You shrug again, like you don’t care. “We haven’t even said it out loud. Just stopped talking. Like the universe hit pause.”

Harry studies you. “So what happened? Really?”

You push your nails into your hand. “I think he knows who I am.”

Harry leans forward, frowning. “You mean-?”

“I think he knows I’m Spider-Woman.”

The words weigh thick in the air. You wait for Harry to speak, but he doesn’t. So you keep going.

“The last time I saw him, I said something…something I said once, back when I was on patrol. When I fought the Flaxans.” Your voice lowers. “Mark’s face changed. Just for a second. Like he connected it. Like it all clicked.”

Harry breathes out slowly. “And he didn’t say anything.”

“Nope. He just… looked at me. And I felt like I was being studied.”

‘He hides too much,’ the voice hisses. ‘We should break him open. Find the truth in his bones.’

You shake your head.

“It’s not that he doesn’t trust me,” you remark. “It’s that he thinks he does. But he’s lying to himself.”

Harry sits back. “You think he’s dangerous?”

You pause. Then.

“…I think he’s trying really hard not to be.”

And somehow, that’s worse.

Harry’s eyes flick to yours. “Do you still love him?”

The question hits you harder than you anticipate. You swallow. Look away.

“…I think I miss what I thought we were.”

Harry doesn’t push. Just sits there. Steady. Like he usually does.

You look at the window, eyes unfocused. “You ever get that feeling that someone’s not who they say they are, but the second you ask, you know it’s all gonna fall apart?”

“All the time,” he says. “I lived with Norman Osborn, remember?”

You puff out a faint chuckle.

He nudges your elbow. “If you want my advice, which I know you don’t, you should talk to him.”

“Why?”

“Because maybe he needs you too. Not Spider-Woman. You.”

You go silent. Venom stirs beneath your ribs.

‘We do not trust him. But if you must communicate with him… we will observe. Closely.’

You sigh. “Maybe.”

Harry leans back in his chair. “Whatever happens, just don’t let him convince you that you’re the problem.”

You gaze at him.

“Because you’re not,” he adds. “You’re… surviving.”

You grin faintly. “You’re too nice.”

“No,” he says. “I just remember who you were before the black goo. You were strong. Scared out of your mind, yet powerful. And I think that girl’s still in there. I guess she’s got teeth now.”

You laugh. Not bitter. Real. For once. And when the calm falls again, it’s not heavy. It just feels like breathing.

The closet light hums above you, dull and warm. It casts a faint golden glow across the scattered mess of your gear, gloves slung over a dresser handle, boots half-zipped, the half-shredded sleeve of your old Spider-Woman suit still hanging like a ghost from a chair you haven’t sat in all week.

You move like muscle memory’s all you’ve got left. Black leggings. Reinforced boots. Sleeveless compression shirt pulled over your ribs like armor. And the hoodie, Harry’s, still smelling like him, gets tossed to the bed in a heap.

There’s a mirror near the corner, but you avoid it. You always do lately. You know what’s in it. The way your reflection twitches sometimes, even when you’re standing still. The way your eyes flash black when your thoughts stray toward hunger. Toward rage. Toward him.

Mark.

God. Just thinking his name makes your jaw tighten.

You reach for your gloves and tug them on, flexing your fingers. The material’s reinforced now. Not like before. Before, you still cared if people saw bruises on your knuckles.

Not anymore. Not when the people who used to hold your hands don’t call anymore.

‘You think of him too much,’ Venom murmurs. ‘He hides things. He lies. We could take the truth from him.’

You sigh through your nose. “Yeah. That’d go over real well.”

‘You protect people. He watches you. Pretends not to see.’

You walk to the window and crack it open. The city roars beneath you, traffic, sirens, a thousand lights flickering in a thousand different apartments. All of it humming, alive, dirty. Just like you.

Harry’s voice floats in from the hallway. “You sure you want to go out tonight?”

You glance over your shoulder as he steps into the room. He’s barefoot, wearing a threadbare shirt that clings to his ribs. The kind he used to wear to crash on your couch when life got too loud. You don’t answer right away.

Then. “Yeah.”

Harry leans against the doorway, watching you grab your mask off the dresser.

“It’s just…you’ve barely slept. You haven’t even let the bruises on your back heal.”

You smirk. “And here I thought you liked seeing me like this. All battered and emotionally unavailable.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Don’t deflect.”

You pause mid-motion. Lower the mask.

“…I have to go.”

“Why?”

You swallow. Because you don’t have an answer that makes sense. Not out loud. Because you don’t want to sit here waiting for Mark to show up. Or call. Or say something that makes it all make sense again. Because the voice in your head only grows louder when you’re still. Because some part of you still believes that saving strangers is the closest you’ll ever get to saving yourself.

“…Because someone out there might need me.”

Harry’s face softens.

“You ever think maybe you’re the one who needs something?”

You walk toward him, slow, the mask dangling from your fingertips.

“I need to feel useful,” you say. “I need to hit something that deserves it. I need to stop thinking about him. And you—you need to stop looking at me like you’re afraid I’m not coming back.”

Harry doesn’t flinch. “I’m not afraid of you not coming back. I’m afraid of who’s gonna walk in if it’s not you anymore.”

That hits harder than you expect. You look down. Then back up.

“…I’m still me.”

“You say that like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

You step closer. So close you can smell the coffee on his breath. “If I wasn’t me, I wouldn’t still be here.”

Harry’s jaw works, but he doesn’t speak. He just… nods. Like he’s not sure if he believes you, but he’s willing to pretend for your sake. You pull the mask on. The fabric’s softer now. Adjusted. Redesigned to flex when the symbiote moves beneath it.

It covers your face, but not your eyes. You can still look him in the eye. And you do.

“You see something weird on the news,” you murmur, “call me.”

He nods again. “I always do.”

You turn to the window. Venom shifts under your skin, stretching like a cat preparing to pounce. Eager. Restless. Almost… happy to be moving again.

‘Finally. We hunt.’

You step onto the ledge. The air bites your skin. The wind claws at your arms. The city opens up below. And somewhere out there, Mark is still lying to you. Or hiding. Or watching. You don’t know which one hurts more. You take a deep breath. And jump.

The wind snaps at you as you swing across rooftops, momentum carrying you forward in long, soundless arcs. The suit crawls over your clothes, to you, alive and fluid, catching you when you falter. Enhancing your reach. Strengthening your muscles.

Every shadow feels like a warning. Every heartbeat feels like a countdown. You hit a rooftop and stop, crouching low, eyes scanning the streets. You can feel it, even before you see anything. Trouble.

A robbery two blocks over. Two masked men dragging a shop owner by the collar. One of them shoves a pistol into his chest. You grin beneath the mask.

‘Let’s play.’

You launch forward again, silent and smooth. And as you descend on them, you stop thinking about Mark. Just for a moment. You stop feeling anything at all. Except power.

Blood on pavement. Not yours. The two muggers are down, breathing, twitching, but barely. One has a fractured wrist and a web cocoon attaching him to a trash. The other is suffering from a dislocated shoulder and what could be two fractured ribs. You’re standing over them, gathering your breath, chest heaving. The mask’s mouth pulled apart just enough for you to breathe through your teeth. Venom is calm, contented, vibrating through your limbs like an engine still idling.

‘They will not try it again,’ the voice replies, amused. ‘We taught them a lesson. We are teachers now. Educators of pain.’

“Could’ve left a little less blood,” you whisper.

‘We could have eaten them.’

You roll your eyes. “We’re not eating anyone.”

‘Just a bite?’

“No.”

You turn away from the alley, vault up a fire escape in two leaps, and land on the rooftop like you were born with talons. The moon casts silver lines over the buildings, making the shadows long and sharp. You squat low on the edge, looking for more action, more crimes, more reasons to keep going.

But your neck itches. You feel it before you see it, like a gut-deep tug behind your ribs. A presence. No, not one. Several. You twist just in time to hear the quiet whirr of hovercraft turbines.

Shit.

A spotlight flashes on overhead, nearly blinding you. You slip backward, shroud of darkness fading under white-hot artificial light. Reflexively, the symbiote surges up your spine, curving over your neck and mouth like a shield. A voice resonates from above.

“Spider-Woman. Stand down.”

You don’t recognize it. But you don’t need to.

GDA.

You’re already moving.

A shock round smacks into the rooftop behind you. The concrete splinters. You leap from the ledge, web-line grabbing a rusting balcony across the alley. You swing hard, make it halfway before a second shot blasts past your ear.

‘They are not here to talk.’

“Yeah, I noticed.”

You land on a rooftop two buildings over, roll to your feet, speed for the next ledge, and run right into a containment net that wasn’t there a second ago. It bursts open around you, sticky with electromagnetic pulses that flare and hiss the instant the symbiote touches it. You scream through clamped teeth as anguish floods your nerves.

‘GET US OUT!’

You press your claws into the roofing and rip through the mesh with a blast of venom-black muscle. The net shreds like wet paper. You stumble, panting, and spin. Three GDA officers are waiting at the far edge of the roof. Full tactical gear. Visors down. Sonic weapons aiming at your head.

The one in front advances forward, voice calm through his helmet. “You need to come with us.”

Your eyes narrow under the mask.

“I don’t take orders from guys who sneak up on me like cowards.”

“Directive came from high command. You’re a threat. We’ve been given two options, confinement, or neutralization.”

You tilt your head. “You really gonna try both in the same sentence?”

“We’re not here to kill you.”

You smile behind the mask. “Sure sounds like you’re not not here to kill me.”

Venom snarls in your throat. Black mass flows across your arms, your fists, your shoulders.

‘We kill them now. Rip and scatter. They will learn.’

You grit your teeth.

“You’re not gonna take me in. You know that, right?”

“Then you leave us no choice.”

The first one shoots. You move. Too quick. The shot grazes your shoulder but the suit absorbs most of it, crackling. You leap, flip, drive your heel into the nearest one’s jaw before he can react. His visor cracks. He stumbles backward.

The second one swings his weapon like a club. You dive under it, throw your elbow into his belly, turn him around and web his feet to the ground. The third attempts to backpedal. You’re already there. A black tendril comes out from your side, snatches his weapon, smashes it in your palm. Then you take him by the vest, shove him into a vent.

Hard. Not enough to kill. Just enough to hurt. He moans and crumples. You step back, breathing hard, heart banging into your ribs.

‘You should’ve let us finish it.’

You bend over the unconscious officer, checking his pulse.

He’s alive. Barely. But that’s enough.

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

‘Next time, they won’t offer us an option.’

You lurch backward, eyes leaping to the roofs above. More drones. Two, maybe three. Watching. Recording.

You curse under your breath. You know you’ve been tagged now. This wasn’t a warning. It was a test.

The new wave had no idea what hit them.

They came fast, black vans, VTOLs, ropes dropped from rooftops like spider silk, armed to the teeth but empty of insight. You were already moving by the time the first one fired. Reflex. Rage. Instinct. Now, ten minutes later, the rooftop is a graveyard of broken armor and half-conscious groans.

You walk through the smoke.

Boots crunch over shattered visors, bent batons, and puddles of someone else’s blood. You don’t speak. You don’t need to. The symbiote vibrates across your back, alert, humming like it’s waiting for the next hit of violence.

‘They didn’t bring fire. Didn’t bring sound. Just bodies to throw. Like kindling.’

“They thought they were hunters.”

‘They are meat.’

You crouch beside the last one twitching, helmet cracked, armor splintered across his ribs. You tap his chest once with your finger. Hard enough to sting. Not hard enough to kill. Yet.

He flinches anyway.

“They send you out here without knowing what I am?”

No answer. Just a groan. You lean in closer, voice low.

“They want to box me up. Cage me. Figure out what makes me tick.” You pause. “Tell Cecil something for me-”

‘Tell him we’re awake now.’

You web him to the floor with a flick of your wrist and turn away. The suit ripples, climbing up your arms, muscles tightening under your skin like drawn cables. You stretch your fingers, black claws emerging at your knuckles.

‘More coming.’

You stop. Beneath the rhythm of your own pulse, you hear it.

‘Boots. Fast. Heavy.’

A new wave.

You smile.

‘Round two.’

They hit harder this time.

Rappel lines cut into the wind. A fresh drop team lands across the opposite rooftop, spreading out in a practiced formation, twenty, maybe thirty. Snipers take up perches above, laser sights combing the smoke.

And for a heartbeat, everything holds.

Then you run straight at them. A flash of black. They shout orders, rifles up. But they’re slow. You’re already inside their ranks, slamming one into the rooftop hard enough to crack the concrete. Another swings his baton, you duck under it, uppercut with a tendril-wrapped fist that sends him flying into a wall.

Three more surround you. You twist, grabbing the first by the collar, lifting him over your head and hurling him into his teammates like a wrecking ball of bone and armor.

Someone yells, “Pull back—SHE’S IN THE AIR-”

You launch yourself upward, tendrils bursting from your back mid-jump, slamming into a sniper tower and ripping the guard rail free. One sniper fires as he falls. The shot grazes your shoulder. Pain slices through you. And it feels good.

‘Let us show them real pain.’

You drop down in a full-body slam that cracks the rooftop beneath your feet. Debris flies outward. The nearest six agents are thrown back instantly. You grab one as he tries to crawl away, web him to the ground, then rip his rifle in half and hurl it off the roof.

Another squad closes in. They never touch you. You shift mid-run, Venom spiking into armored plating across your forearms, your fists becoming clubs. You hit two with a wide sweep, helmets crunch, visors explode. The third grabs your arm. You let him. Tendrils spiral up your elbow and snap his wrist backward, then toss him like trash.

‘Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Getting bored.’

You spin midair, webs catching the edge of a billboard, swing, twist, land hard on another rooftop where reinforcements are already waiting.

This time, you don’t pause. You leap into them like a warhead. Someone screams as a tendril wraps around his neck, yanking him into the air.

“Wait—WAIT—she’s not supposed to be this-”

You silence him with a palm to the face, slamming him into the concrete with a wet crack. Someone else runs. You web his legs, yank him backward, drag him screaming through broken glass.

‘No more games.’

You stand there, heart pounding, surrounded by the fallen. Fifty, at least. They came with gear. With numbers. With orders. But they didn’t come ready. You’re not breathing heavy. Not anymore. The suit is still pulsing. But slower now. Resting.

‘They’ll send more.’

You whisper, “Let them.” Then something changes. A low hum fills the air, not mechanical. Turbines. Big ones. You look up. And there, cutting through the dark, a ship.

Not a van. Not a drone. Not GDA. You know the silhouette. Your body shifts without thinking, mask sealing fully, tendrils rising. Another shadow passes overhead. You feel it. A presence. Weight. Power.

‘Guardians.’

You take a slow step back.

A shadow descends through the clouds, broad-shouldered. Gleaming. Bulletproof. And where he goes, the others follow. Dupli-Kate. Black Samson. Shrinking Rae. Shapes slicing through the fog like knives.

Your jaw tightens.

‘They sent heroes.’

“They’re late.”

‘They’ll learn.’

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

“Fifty confirmed incapacitated,” a tech reports. “Eighteen with critical injuries. Some are missing.”

Cecil doesn’t blink. He watches the feed from a drone barely clinging to the skyline. The image is shaky, but it’s clear enough. You. Standing over the wreckage. A god in black. Breathing. Waiting.

“She escalated.”

“No,” Cecil murmurs. “We did.”

He reaches for the comm.

“Status on the Guardians?”

“They’re en route now. Two minutes out.”

“Tell them…” He hesitates.

Then. “Tell them this isn’t a takedown. This is a test.”

The tech blinks. “Sir?”

“Find out if she can be stopped,” Cecil says quietly.

“And if she can’t?”

Cecil watches you leap off the rooftop like gravity means nothing. Then he turns.

“…Then we pray she doesn’t decide to burn the rest of the city down.”

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

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