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giorno-plays-piano · 26 days ago

Text

Ars Amatoria

Ancient Rome AU

Pairing: Satoru Gojo x reader

Warnings: yandere, obsession, stalking, chase, period-typical violence, death of minor characters, Satoru is the Emperor's brother.

Words: 3.1k

Summary: By the end of the second month, you could no longer leave the house without numerous servants circling around you. He is everywhere, whether it is a market or an arena, a house of your father's friend or a city street. If you stay alone, he always comes to talk to you even if for a minute. When you are surrounded by servants and family, he will find a way to attract your attention simply to wave to you from afar. Nothing can keep him away.

__________

He is right behind you.

Nothing betrays his presence but his erratic breathing as he makes a step closer, leaning in to get a whiff of your hair while you freeze like a statue. The sick bastard somehow always catches you alone as if he knows in advance when you give a command to the maids to fetch something. He is always there, a shadow behind a curtain. He has been following you for months, and there is nothing you can do to stop him.

"Greetings, my lady," he snickers, thrilled from the proximity. "I've missed you."

Your hands get cold, but you forbid yourself to tremble. Satoru Gojo is a predator through and through, and showing fear in front of him is akin letting him sink his teeth into you.

"This is very improper, my lord. There will be talks."

As if he ever cared about it. Being a younger brother of the Emperor has its benefits: Satoru Gojo can do anything he wants and will not get punished for any offense except for treason. Nevertheless, you hate to admit, he is not a spoiled and pampered boy he pretends to be. With years spent on a conquest of neighboring lands to expand the Empire's territory, he is well-versed in the arts of war and politics. Truly, despite his odd character, he is an honorable member of the Imperial family, and the Senate speaks well of him.

If only not for his inexplicable obsession with a woman he hardly knows.

You've met him at the Saturnalia, on the second day of the festivities in the house of one of the senators. Your father, albeit not a politician, knows his trade well, and it earned him enough respect and support to be invited. His only surviving child, you were brought along to enjoy the guising among the other sons and daughters. You did not expect any disturbance: soft-spoken and well-educated, you knew how to enjoy the carnival without inviting trouble. Unfortunately for you, the trouble found you in the face of a masked suitor who spent the whole evening beside you.

He was so charming that night. Holding your hand, he recited poetry and spoke of legends he learned in the faraway lands, enjoying your full attention. As you two drank wine and ate fruits on the terrace in the middle of the night, he pointed at the stars at the sky and told you many, many stories about each of them. At one point, you suggested he was making them up to feed your curiosity, but it only flattered you. It seemed the stranger was enamored by you, too.

By early morning, when drunk and sleepy guests were finally leaving the house, you let your suitor drop a kiss to your hand and gave him a little fibula with your father's insignia on it. While it wasn't very wise to search encounter with masked strangers outside of Saturnalia, you couldn't believe a senator would have unworthy guests under his roof. Besides, your suitor seemed to cultured and well-behaved, you thought knowing a little more about him wouldn't hurt. Your maids would never betray your secret, and you were too clever to do anything that could cause unnecessary talks.

When you heard his voice behind you on the third day of the festivities, you thought it was a happy coincidence he'd found you so fast. When you saw the face of a man you knew from the celebration the Emperor held for him after his return from the conquest, you realized what a dangerous game you were playing. Satoru Gojo was no match for a rich merchant's daughter. You were not meant for the life of the court or high politics. When he spoke of courtship, you realized the dangers awaiting you if you were mad enough to accept his offer. That is, if Emperor wouldn't assassinate you before marriage for daring to seduce someone well-above your rank.

You rejected him carefully. Surely, it was not his fault: neither of you knew the identity of the other that night. Satoru seemed strangely hot-headed for an acclaimed general to be offering courtship so early, but your father often spoke of the vigor of young soldiers to marry. Perhaps, when a bit of time passes, he would realize his mistake.

But Satoru Gojo did not accept the rejection. He smiled, flashing his pearly white teeth, and assured you he would come to you later, when you would grow accustomed to the thought of marriage.

This was how the chase began. By the end of the second month, you could no longer leave the house without numerous servants circling around you. He is everywhere, whether it is a market or an arena, a house of your father's friend or a city street. If you stay alone, he always comes to talk to you even if for a minute. When you are surrounded by servants and family, he will find a way to attract your attention simply to wave to you from afar. Nothing can keep him away. In fact, you are left wondering why he did not yet drag you to his house: in his position, he can do anything he wishes, and neither your father nor his senator friends can save you. Perhaps, the predator that he is, he simply enjoys the chase.

When your father summons you at the end of the fifth month, you are certain he will speak of this marriage. You are the only child of his that survived past infancy, and he cares for you greatly. You know he does not want to give you away only to see you perish from an assassin's knife or poisoned wine sent by Satoru Gojo's enemies, but he has no choice. No one can offer you protection.

Yet, your father does not speak of marriage. "Gather your things," he says firmly, a sealed letter in his hands. "Tonight, you will depart to Cilicia. A good friend of mine has offered you refuge until things will settle down here. I will send guards and servants with you. If the general asks, I will pretend you are sick and need to recover before you are seen in public."

For a second, you think you forget how to breathe. Leave? You can leave?

"But what if he still wants to visit?"

The man rubs the bridge of his nose, his eyes tired, and head bowed. "I will say you are contagious and should be kept away."

"But what if he sends me a doctor?"

When your father lifts up his greying head from his heavy wooden desk, you realize he is ready to die for the offense if only it gets you away from the Emperial bastard. You can't go. If your suitor finds out the truth, your house will burn. He will kill everyone for your father's lie.

"You will go to Cilicia even if I have to bind you by the hands and feet," your father says with such determination you know he will stay true to his word despite any pleas. You were blind to the depth of his love for you, his only child, and it brings you to tears.

When you leave, you have but a couple of maids to keep you company, all of them frightened but obedient to your father's will. For hours, you do not speak, staring into the darkness as the cart is being dragged further and further away from the capital until you no longer hear anything but the sound of hooves. You fear the uncertainty, but Satoru Gojo and the danger surrounding him scares you more. The way his eyes always seem searching for you in a crowd, his normally pale cheeks a shade of bright pink the second his gaze lands on you; the way he touches you tenderly, trembling from excitement when his hand reaches for your hair, hidden beneath the veil... There is something very disturbing about him, and you fear the future where you are his wife and his has power over you. Would he truly love you as he promised on the third day of Saturnalia? Was the man reciting poems to you like an actor on the stage of a theater truly Satoru Gojo? Or was it all a pretense to capture your attention, a predator's instinct to lure its prey? He plagues your thoughts long after you left your home.

By the time you reach the next big city, it's been days, and you crave a hot bath and a proper meal before going to sleep in a real bed: the tiny villages you crossed could offer little comfort even for big money, and everyone surrounding you is equally exhausted from long travel. You need a little rest before continuing further. Surely, one or two days won't hurt? You need to exchange the horses, anyway, and the servants and guards require rest as much as you.

While you avoid all public spaces, you cannot resist balnea that is conveniently close to your inn. You smell worse than a cattle. Far from home and surrounded by your people, you are somewhat pacified by the thought of Satoru being far away: you do not think he could have already found you. Surely, despite his status, he is only a man. Enjoying your time at the public bathes, you forget your worries for a minute, and your maids are grateful for a little respite.

When you return to your quarters, the inn is strangely quiet. You do not see it at first, chatting with the girls, all of you finally clean and proper, your skin shining in the sunlight. By the time you reach the doors, you see the blood leaking on the floor from behind them. The maids, untrained in the matters of murder, scream as you stare at the pool of crimson liquid, your body numb. Before you know it, you run.

Who is it? Who would hunt you down to kill? Satoru might be deranged, but he'd rather catch you to have you for himself instead of murdering you for defiance. It must be someone else. Is it the Emperor? Is he finally aware his younger brother is publicly humiliating himself, pleading for the hand of a woman who is below him? Is it someone else?

Tears are spilling down your cheeks as you choke on air, running the streets like a mad woman, your maids and servants abandoned somewhere behind along with everything your father gave you for protection. There is nothing you can do, alone and defenseless in a strange city. You are going to die. Oh gods, you are going to die today.

Turning away to see if anyone chases you, you suddenly crush into someone, the wind knocked out of you from such forceful encounter. You would hit the ground if the stranger did not pull you up by the hands. Disoriented, you turned your head to him, tears clouding your vision. Was he the killer? The assassin sent by the Emperor? Was he going to stab you with a knife or cut your head off and bring to his master as proof?

Instead, you hear Satoru Gojo's troubled voice, "Are you injured?"

Before you blink away the tears, he already drags you away from the street to a tiny back alley, wrapping you in his thick wool cloak to hide you from prying eyes. He shushes you, his warm hand on your head as he nudges your face into his chest, asking you to keep quiet, and you stay still, the heat of his body almost burning your skin. Another minute pass, and you hear the shouts of those who were chasing you before they fade away as men continue on, convinced you are still running ahead of them. Every single hair on your body stands on end. Someone truly sent assassins after you.

"Please, help," you plead, ready to sink to your knees and kiss Satoru's feet for a chance to get to safety. "P-please! I'll do anything you ask, just get me out of here!"

His clear blue eyes shine in the darkness of the alley when he smiles at you, his head held high as he promises proudly, "Of course, love. Stay close."

Never in those months you've known him you could imagine asking him for help. His proximity meant nothing but trouble even if he was kind to you, sending you gifts or reading poems, because danger always follows people of his statue wherever they go. Now, though, he is your only chance of leaving the city safely, and you aren't going to waste it.

You cling to him like a child to their mother, following him from an alley to an alley as he eyes the streets, his other hand on the handle of his sword, ready to draw it the second he sees a threat to you. While you never truly thought of him as a hero, used to seeing him in a rather unbecoming of a man state, Satoru Gojo is not only a good soldier: he is the best Imperial Legion can offer. Scanning the crowd, he quickly moves from one place to another without drawing attention, and you barely register as you end up next to his soldiers, all of them armed.

You fail to register your two maids among them, but they quickly remind you of themselves with their shouts, crying as they run to you. Luckily, they are unharmed, you think as you sob, too.

"We need to get moving," Satoru proclaims, saddling his steed and extending his hand to you. "Quick, come."

Needles to say, you are too scared to argue, and you mount the steed with your savior sitting just behind you. Strangely, instead of usual dread, you feel safe with him. He is here to protect you.

Your maids ride with the soldiers as you make way outside of the city, not stopping for what seems like hours to you. Not once you see your pursuers, but, perhaps, it simply fails your attention: all the soldiers Satoru brought are on guard, and you can see the unease on their faces. Indeed, you are simply lucky to get away on time.

By the time you finally stop, your thighs and back ache, and your mouth is dry as if you spent the day in a desert. You lost your new woolen palla somewhere in the city, and your long stola is torn and surely caked with dirt. Oh, your poor father would have a stroke if he could see you now.

"I'm sorry for the uncomfortable journey," your suitor smiles at you, helping you get off the horse as you moan from pain. He then wraps his spare cloak around your shoulders and puts cloth on the fallen tree for you to sit on. "The cart would slow us down, and we couldn't afford losing more time."

You ask, agitated, "Are we safe now?"

Sadly, he shakes his head. "Not until we're back in the capital. I will keep you from harm, but the assassins sent after you are not some street rats. We need to get home."

You have no tears left after today's chase, and all you do is hide your face in your palms, moaning in exhaustion. What have you done to warrant this savagery? What crime have you committed?

"Why do they want my head?" You exhale, looking up to the man in front of you, and his expression falls. Even he feels sorry for you

Landing next to you, he rubs his shoulder, seemingly tired from this race as much as you are. "You are my chosen one. They want to hurt me."

Blood rushes to your head when you hear him admit it. It is his fault. You are being hunted for the pleasure of his enemies. All the time spent avoiding and rejecting him, all these efforts to escape to Cilicia... it all is for nothing. You are already a target despite refusing marriage.

Seeing the change in your expression, Satoru is quick to grab your hands in his and speak again. "I am at fault. I should have stopped you from leaving. I have been guarding you everywhere you go since the time we met, but I cannot give you the same protection elsewhere. My enemies have been watching you since Saturnalia."

Horrified, you stare at his handsome face, his pale cheeks and the tip of his nose red from sunburn. From Saturnalia? You have been a target for so long? How did you survive for months without even realizing you were being hunted? How could your father not know someone was watching your house? Your guards? Your servants?

Satoru's rough, callous hands squeeze yours tenderly as you sob again, angry at him but still grateful for your escape. You were doomed from the start, weren't you? Nothing you could do would change anything. All of this has been for nothing, even your poor father's attempt to hide you in a faraway province. You would always end up here, with Satoru, or simply dead somewhere on the streets.

"I tried to tell you, but you did not want to listen to me," he whispers gently as he embraces you, his hands wrapped around your back as he shifts you to sit in his lap. "Please, do not weep, love. I will deliver you back to safety."

"What s-safety?" You hiccup, disillusioned with all your attempts to separate from him. "So they would watch the house of my father and strike us later?"

When the man lands a soft kiss to your forehead, you sniff, palms pressed to his chest. It's all his fault. Even if he was not stalking you for his own pleasure all this time, it's still all his fault for you ending up like this, for the death of your people.

"No, no," he reassures you quickly. "We will get married, and you will live in my house. No one can get through the gates unless I personally give them permission. If you so wish, you will not see a single soul in your chambers for months."

Sounds like a dream, you think, tired and hungry and upset. Not having to worry about your life taken in your sleep is now a luxury you cannot afford.

"You promise?" You murmur into his ear, curling against him, abandoning all modesty for why would you be modest with a man you will marry upon entering the capital?

"Promise," he whispers in response, his cheeks sickly pink again as he delivers a kiss to the top of your head.

_______

Tags: @shybluebirdninja

#yandere #jjk #satoru gojo #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru

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thewritetofreespeech · 7 months ago

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Astarion x Reader

words: 1.5K

rating: T

pairing: Ascended!Astarion x Tav

summary: banking off the Jealous!Tav x Astarion ask, I made one for Ascended verse as well.

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Astarion let out a deep sigh as he walked through the long corridors of his palace towards his chambers. Who knew being a Vampire Lord would be so taxing?

He thought it would be all blood, japes, and all-consuming-power when he ascended, but noooo. Apparently, all that power did not come with an instantaneous dark underground to control and city at his feet. He had to put in effort. Time. A lot of both, which somedays Astarion thought was just not worth it. But his ambitions would not let him rest on his laurels. Even if he did need a rest for the evening.

The doors let out a heavy echo as they close behind him, and Astarion sighed once more as he undid his overcoat. His attention then turned towards the bed as he saw the bedding move. “Darling?” He questioned curiously but knew it couldn’t be.

Tav was out with Shadowheart. Catching up with their dear friend while she was in the city, for reasons that were probably told to Astarion but he couldn’t be bother to remember since he wasn’t going. For once he let them go unaccompanied but was now hopeful that they came back early over missing him terribly.

“Master?” Astarion’s face paled (metaphorically, as it could not get any paler than it already was) as the sheets pulled back an a young, blonde, naked woman appeared from the covers. “I thought you’d never come back tonight.”

“What are you doing here Azura?” He hissed at his latest spawn. A silly girl who begged him for the gift, and Astarion gave it to her for no other reason than he felt his beloved needed a new chambermaid. “You dare enter my chambers, uninvited, and help yourself to my bed. Have you lost your absolute mind?!”

Astarion wasn’t exactly kind to his spawn, but he wasn’t nearly as cruel as Cazador. Which he knew was a very low bar. He gave them a fine amount of freedom to move about the castle. Updated the dorms so they weren’t as spartan as what he had been forced to endure. Almost never tortured them unless they absolutely needed to be punished. And this is how he was repaid?!

“Yes. I have lost my mind. Lost it for you, my master.” He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Oh Gods, the idiot was in love. He recognized that soft stare and devoted posture. If her, quite literally, naked display wasn’t enough of a clue he could nearly smell the pheromones off her. “I wanted to surprise you. I wanted to please you.”

“You can please me by getting out.” He pointed to the door although he didn’t compel her. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps he wanted to again be kind and give her the choice. Or just a sick morbid curiosity on how this would play out.

“Leave? You really don’t want me here?” She seemed surprised. Given her beauty this may have been the first time she was rejected, Astarion assumed. It always surprised him when his quarry didn’t take the bait. Perhaps this was a similar feeling for her. “You really don’t want me to stay?”

Azura pulled back the sheets to reveal that she wasn’t truly naked. Just in a thin nightgown that was so transparent it was nearly invisible. Her skin smooth. Her legs long. Her cunt neatly shaved and breast taunt & perky. She’ll lead men to this castle in droves, he thought. Unfortunately, her charms were immune to him.

“Yes. Get out. I won’t repeat myself again.”

The girl jumped off the bed and came closer. Astarion hoped it was for the door, but no such luck. His spawn leaned into him, delicate and wanting. Staring up into his eyes like a lover while he stared back at her with a stern look. “Shouldn’t a master be able to taste what’s his when he likes. Don’t you miss my blood from the first time? Tasting it on your lips?”

He wants to tell her no. That he hasn’t thought about it since that first time. Honestly, he hadn’t thought of her since that first time. But mentions of blood, and the reminder of the power he felt when he took her life and made it his own, does get his own blood to hum.

“You can have it again, if you’d like. Take all of me. A lord, a king, can take anything he wishes. I can be your obedient consort as well. Be one of your most beloved spawn.” As she spoke her body and lips moved closer to him.

“What’s going on here?”

The girl jumped back, quickly. Like she had been licked by fire. Astarion stood still. He hadn’t done anything wrong, technically, so he had no reason to be afraid. Although that cool look in Tav’s eyes was making him seriously question that decision. “I said: what’s going on here?”

“I was….I-I was just….I…”

“You were trying to take my place, eh?” Astarion chuckled at his beloved’s blunt response. Direct and to the point as always.

“Darling, as if she could.” He moved over to Tav. Separating himself completely from his spawn to sooth his consort. “This is just some misplaced adoration of a spawn and their master. Granted we’ve gone a little far…”

“It’s not misplaced! I love you!” There was a growl in Tav’s throat and Astarion huffed at the girl’s childish pleas. He really had been trying to help her here. “I would never leave you alone like they would! I would be loyal to you always! I can be twice the consort they are if you just give me a ch—"

She doesn’t get to finish asking for her chance that would never come. As her head was hanging limp to the side, nearly off her shoulders. Blood gushing from the gaping hole in her throat. Spraying across the room and down her thin negligee. Once translucent material now opaque as it was drenched in crimson. “Well…that was something.”

“It’s not funny Astarion!” Tav yelled at him. Their eyes were wild and angry as they whipped around to glare at him. A powerful shiver running up his spine in the face of that heat.

“Of course it’s funny. All this for something so trivial. As if this scrap of nothing could have replace you. My beloved, perfect consort.” Astarion came close and lifted their bloody hand to kiss it gently. “No one could, would, or ever will replace you, my love. My wicked heart is yours, for all eternity.”

“Why didn’t you tell her that then?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t think it needed to be said.” His poor dead spawn had to know she was taking a long shot when she came here. And if she didn’t then she was too dumb for Astarion to have around anyway. Still, he supposed Tav was right. He could have made more of an effort to stop her. “Still, it is rather cute that you can still get jealous over my affection. It makes me so hot. Watching you fight over me.”

He heard Tav sigh when he kissed by their ear and then jaw. Hearing them mutter, “not much of a fight” which made his cock harden in his breeches.

“Perhaps I should flirt with women and men more often.”

Astarion felt a hard jerk of his own pristine, sharp jaw away from Tav. Their nails digging into the soft skin of his cheek as they stared at them with a blazing hatred he hadn’t seen since the Elder Brain or that disgusting necromancer in the crypt. “Don’t.” A single word. Sharp. Direct.

He doesn’t like to be told ‘no’ often these days. He’s killed men for less presses against his authority. But that sharp look, one that promised his beloved would leave a trail of bodies like rose petals at his feet if he even pretended to be interested in them, made his blood boil with desire. It’s a beat in his heart that echoes his own. The agonies he would face on men who even stared at his beloved too long. Their glances were only for him. Their body was only his. Their conversations, their passions, their life, their loyalty, all of it was his. He supposed the least he could do was not pretend to be fickle with it.

“Very well, my love. I won’t. My sweet words will, as always, be for you alone. Plus, we can’t have your jealousy wreaking havoc all over the castle & city. Just think of the stains.”

He kissed Tav, to reassure them that his love was for them and them alone, picking them up and carrying them to the bed to remind them properly. As he carried them to their bed, he stepped over poor dead, double dead, Azura’s body. Already forgotten. Already not even a memory. Just a stain in the carpet that would need to be sorted out in the morning.

#;pen & paper (fanfiction)#baldur's gate #baldurs gate iii #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate #bg3 scenarios #baldurs gate astarion #bg3 imagine #baldurs gate tav #bg3 fanfiction #astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #ascended astarion #ascended astarion x tav #ascended astarion x reader #bg3 smut #astarion smut #astarion ancunin

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fauustic · 2 years ago

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a second chance

BRIEF SPOILERS FOR ACROSS THE SPIDER-VERSE, DESCRIPTION OF REVEALED WORLD-BUILDING.

gender-nonconforming reader x miguel “spider-man 2099″ o’hara

angst. comfort. a bit of fluff. miguel o’hara breaks up with you for your safety, but the universe gives you both a second chance.

warnings: description of violence.

word count: 7358

Somehow, the city seemed even more suffocating out the window of Miguel’s apartment, lights of every color on the spectrum peering into the room as highly advanced cars skimmed by. The millions of people inhabiting such a place had their own problems, but for a moment you wished you were someone else. On their way to work in a tip-top business suit, an old person trying to make the most out of every passing day– anything other than here was more appetizing.

For a moment, you wish you were ignorant to the burden of these powers, the powers Miguel was forced upon and the powers you greedily accepted like a little kid in a candy shop.

It was all too much.

You’ve never seen Miguel so emotional, his knees meeting the ground before you could even shut the door.

There were glimpses of what let through, the broken state of his mind that he so desperately tried to keep together like grains of sand falling through fingers. Late nights he would break down sobbing in your grounding hold, chanting and repeating broken phrases of what had him so upset. Other times these fits you slowly grew accustomed to would be set off from your kindness, actions so deeply rooted in your routine that when it started creating disturbances in your relationship. It was painful, being the glue that held him together.

At the beginning of your relationship, it was something magical. Like one of the romance comics you’d skim through as a teenager, or a romcom movie that had you pining for the lovey-dovey side character.

Miguel was set in his ways no matter what he was faced upon, and making a statement on how serious he felt about you was no different. He’d court you with the utmost respect, swaying you with gifts and flowers that reminded him of you. His affectionate nature came to fruition as you crumbled all his walls in mere months, destroying the years of progress that he enforced to keep others out.

Yet, those nasty habits Miguel formed when he had no-one else slowly peeked through the crevices of your time together. Soft red flags that waved in passing roses he’d give after bad arguments of “your safety,” a bad feeling in your gut whenever Miguel mentioned something along the lines of, “they can’t hurt you too.”

The few months leading to the end of it all was messy, as secrets he precariously kept away from you fell right at your feet. Literally, and figuratively.

Waking into your shared home, all that was on your mind was preparing a meal for you boyfriend who always seemed to come home late. The scent of the apartment washed over your exhaustion-ridded body, cracking your shoulder with a pained hiss.

Distinct woody fragrances wafted throughout the cozy décor, Miguel’s aroma of Sambac jasmine combined with cedar and praline met your senses as a familiar comfort. You wondered if Miguel experienced the same after a long day, your magnolia and orange blossom washes relieving him of the stress of work.

Miguel was overwhelmed, sickened by his work at his lab. You’d always try to help him through his struggles with a massage, which he'd melt under your touch in mere seconds, but the moment you attempted to get him to speak about his troubles he always found an excuse.

So you stopped, having to face rejection so many times by the man you adored put so much wear on your own mental health too.

Getting home a bit earlier, you situated your suit in your over-the-shoulder bag before fully stepping into the apartment. As your entire being was surrounded by the reminder of Miguel, guilt slashed through your consciousness at keeping your own secrets away from him as well. But he was worried sick always, whether it be about his own duties or confusingly about your safety.

Yet, when your sneakers you changed into moments before entering the house slipped onto something haphazardly thrown against tile floor– the façade Miguel tried to feed into to "keep you away from harm" came crashing down.

It felt like an earthquake within your own home, rattling your heart around your ribcage like a feral bird stuck in an aviary. You were quiet, the gasp where sickness soon followed escaped through your stifling fingers wrapped against your mouth. It was terrible, being exposed to the truth in an act caught red-handed.

Curiosity snatched up your brain, the urge to prove what the mask strewn against the floor truly meant. You knew what was bound to come, but you couldn't help but think of a million different excuses in the time you tiptoed through the hallway and met the sight of his scarred back sitting upon the table.

His suit was torn off in a hurry, you assumed, by the state of how the half of his suit was rolled down to his waist and his mask was ripped off and thrown down carelessly. Finally catching him in such a vulnerable position, your heart seized and shriveled just to be rolled out again as his groan in pain cut you away from your thoughts.

You were upset. You know you had no right to be, but as every lie he fabricated to allow the space to have this second life pushed to the forefront of your mind, a choked sob erupted through your throat.

Why did he suffer through this burden alone? Is this what kept him from letting me in? Your brain became muddled with questions, tears clouding your tired gaze. Miguel was in the middle of tightening a gauze against a nasty cut on his forearm, curls damp with sweat and blood, when the choked cry that escaped your lips caught his attention like a spooked animal.

"Miguel," you sobbed harder as he continued to try and make excuses,

"Cariño, it isn't what it looks like–"

Your voice raised as heightened emotions threatened the atmosphere, your grasp on your bag tightening because you had your own secrets and second identity. Why wouldn't honesty escape from your mind and rid the ache in your chest?

You settled on being mad. Being absolutely furious as you reminded yourself of the lies he'd conjured, make you worry about his job as a chemist and even embarrass yourself by going up there and filing a complaint. Knowing it was all an act and you were just a side-character to his play, a mix of disappointment and betrayal fogged your mind. "I'm not blind, O'Hara!"

Stomping back down to swipe up the mask, lens broken and flimsy under your manhandling, you waved it around the air like you were showcasing an audience. Miguel only groaned, pinching his nose as his own frustration clouded his critical thinking. "I know exactly what I'm looking at, Miguel, really? Is this why you act like you're so fucking scared of something?"

He repeated your name this time, cold and calculated. Like you were a villain on the battlefield Spider-man– he– just destroyed earlier, spitting out the criminal's tag like it was worse than the dirt he stepped on. "¡Mierda!" He seethe, standing up only to shuffle closer, but you only stepped away. "Do you think I enjoyed keeping this fucked up secret away from you? No estoy orgullosa de mí misma."

Tell him you have the same problems.

"Were you ever going to tell me?" You cried instead, and his hands reached to cradle your cheeks but you pathetically swiped them away.

Tell him you have to worry about living until the next day for the sake of protecting others.

He was frozen stiff, his hands– claws you've never noticed before, unsheathing in and out of his palms. "I.. was. But I was terrified."

Tell him you're scared of others finding out who you really are too. Tell him you relate, and there was no reason to hide anymore.

But you didn't, instead you wiped away your own tears with sweaty palms, struggling to keep yourself from staring at Miguel's broken expression. He looked like a kicked puppy, his arms reaching out to you subtly to show if you walked into his arms he'd never let you go.

"Scared of what?" You tried your best to sound as furious as before, but all that came was a meek whisper.

Miguel's own tears fell onto the floor, catching your eyes as you stared at his mask in your clutches. "I'm so, so fucking scared of losing you. Tú eres mi vida, the air I breathe. You're the one constant I've had in my life, having it ripped away from me would kill me."

He's finally being open, and for a moment you saw light at the end of the tunnel. A turning point for the man, a second chance at being transparent in your relationship. It gave you the courage to come clean about your own second life and to apologize for your irrational words. But he spoke before you, rough and etched with hurt.

"But I don't know if we can keep this up."

"What?" The trance he was putting you under was shattered.

He laughed at nothing, his stare tinted with animalistic craze. Miguel's claws dug into his curls, "We need to break up."

The mask in your grip fell, a stunned silence settling over the two of you. He had just said he couldn't live without you, how he wouldn't know what to do if you were ripped away from him– and now he's proposing a breakup?

"You, what? Is this some joke?"

He turned away from you, pacing in unsaid panic. You knew he didn't want to do this, yet once he had a plan in his mind you also knew that he'd sacrifice anything to do the "right thing."

Miguel repeats your name the second time that night, your composure thrown off at the lack of pet names he would utter like honey from his tongue. He sounds hollow, dissociated from himself to make this discussion finish quicker. "They, I'm scared– okay? Scared shitless that they're going to come after you." He wheezed out another dry laugh, his bruised knuckles coming to kiss his eyes to blind his vision. The loudness of your voice from before must be giving him headaches. Because you were struggling with the same thing too.

"I can fend for myself–" you began to counter, hands coming in contact with the spider suit in your bag before his booming voice shook you to your core.

"No, no. You don't understand." Sobs choked his words, a flood of tears he couldn't bother to rid staining his cheeks and rolling down his jaw. "You can't! They're coming for me, and the ones I love. And the only one I love is you." Miguel emphasized himself by grazing your chest with a talon, exactly where your heart beat lurched and pattered like a broken down engine. "They will target you, and they will kill you."

Desperate, you were the one now begging for him to walk into your embrace. But he only turned away, his marred back facing you. The image burned itself in your mind.

"Who are they, Miguel? Why, even now, you won't tell me anything?" You sank to your knees, crawling towards him in despair. It couldn't be over.

"Hemos terminado. We're done, over." Miguel's tone steeled over, icy and painful and jarring. "Get out of my house."

He stood there like a statue, one arm holding himself only for his free hand to be pinching the bridge of his nose. Miguel didn't move as you quieted down your wails, and storm through the house to take what was yours and what you needed.

No words left your lips as you would steal a glance at his unmoving figure, the only giveaway that he was even breathing was his wavering composure. His attention stayed fixated on a corner of his apartment, head turned away from you the entire time.

You didn't care that you were still leaving so much of your stuff as your legs tripped over themselves to finally leave his apartment. You had more than enough money to live on your own, to buy the barebones like a toothbrush and necessities all over again.

Miguel O'Hara would now be a thing of the past, and all of the things tied to him could burn down in the apartment he held you.

Your senses could tell that once your sneakers squeaked down the hallway of his apartment, thinking you would never be able to notice– Miguel's knees met the floor of his apartment with a heavy thud.

Fighting the amount of bags in your hands while simultaneously pushing the button of the first floor repetitively, the last memory you have of Miguel was his unfiltered sobs filling the apartment floor.

☆

With time, you found yourself.

Whether it be from the new body wash you had bought for yourself or the different commute you began to take for work, a niche engineering project you've stumbled upon after the breakup– and it coincidentally helps you test materials that you could incorporate into your suit. The constant reminder of the man you brought to your knees didn't hurt that much anymore. Progress was being made, or so you thought.

Every time your back met a brick wall from the force of some outer-dimensional monster turned sentient who all of a sudden wants to get back at the human race, the thud that echoed from the impact would knock you right back to the apartment filled with sweet praline and magnolia. His sobs trailing behind a screech of pain from your enemies, causing hesitation in your combat.

The cheers below you snapped you out of your daze, civilians chanting for your victory or screaming in fear as they ran away. After the breakup, you've found yourself with the leniency of being able to suit up whenever your heart desires because you weren't keeping a secret away from another anymore.

You bit your cheek in frustration, upset at how you handled the situation because you had done the same and you were mad at him for doing exactly what you were doing. All these months have passed, and you still can't help but feel guilty.

But it's in the past now.

Another screech met your ears, back shivering as a chill washed over your spine. With the fast reaction speed you were able to build, you swung out of the way to another rooftop before the alienistic creature side slammed you. The web slinger you have tinkered with enhanced your ability to shoot out organic webs at a consistent pace, working as fine as a charm when you swing back towards the vicious monster to crunch your knuckles sickeningly into its slimy flesh. It glitched disgustingly.

It withered away with ease, falling off the skyscraper it had leaped upon in an attempt to finish you off. Throwing a device onto the being, it was trapped into a vibrant hold it couldn’t get out of.

Your soft cream-white suit glistened with its green blood, covering the black trim you painstakingly painted in the dead of night.

The appearance you kept up as a Spider-person upgraded with time because you didn't exactly mind the limelight. Not staying in the shadows anymore since you didn't have to worry about O’Hara finding out about you, your suit became something you adorned with confidence. It was a part of you now, as cheers sounded out from below at your entertaining brawl with a slime monster that totally wants to eradicate the city.

But yeah, go ahead and cheer you poor ignorant souls.

You never really came up with a name, but as you began incorporating little trinkets on your newly added combat satchel like a stray feather and charms of swans because a little girl said "your suit reminded her of one," the news generously graced you with the title "Spider Swan." On some bad days on the broadcast, though, the name would easily become a tomato show for jokes like "baby bird couldn't flap its wings," or "someone left the nest a bit too early."

It was infuriating.

The headgear installed in your mask allowed you to pick up on police waves, listening into calls and urgent matters so you could have a better idea of where you were needed and how you could help.

It rang through the noise of webs slinging from a glass window to a neon billboard, the police urgently requesting backup on a city street not that far away from you. It was describing a creature just like the one you obliterated, slimy and green and totally not from your universe. A scream pierced the radio waves, encouraging a sense of a little more urgency in your movements.

Becoming more involved with this line of work, you began to understand Miguel's worries. Corrupt organizations would pray for your downfall, threatening everyone you should probably hold dear to your heart as your spurred shoes met the slide of their faces. Other times skilled criminals would form alliances with one another and try to dig up your true identity as a way of blackmail.

It never worked and they're now where they need to be, but you suppose after you hear so many threats you begin to take it with nonchalance– and suddenly it isn't an empty threat– the panic that overwhelmed O’Hara was perfectly reasonable.

The beautiful lights of the underground city lit up against your lenses like a wildfire, a visual feast you’ve never been able to get enough of. Swinging throughout the tight spaces of Nueva York, you neared closer to where you were needed. A gunshot veered past you, presumably from a dumb cop, and you had to flip in the air and roll onto the street before picking up speed again.

Hissing out in pain, a quip escaped your lips when you neared the police force. “Did anyone here train to do their job? The last time I was here you almost shot me in my good eye–” Before you could even finish your sentence, two rookies pulled their guns in a defensive stance. With a heavy sigh, you easily subdued them with your webs before swinging into action.

The monster looked as if it was already struggling, turned away from your figure and groaning in its mother tongue, oozing with a gross slime that littered and disrupted the flow of traffic down below. It was relatively larger than the one you had just captured and suddenly the device in your hand feels a little too small. Nonetheless, as the villain flailed lazily, the heel of your foot met the crunching sensation from one of its many eyes. You almost gagged as it exploded onto your white suit, but the navy blue lenses meeting your contrasting white made time stop. It wasn’t until one of the many tentacles belonging to the creature yanked your ankle– soaring you violently towards a skyscraper– that the trance from the one you had been avoiding was interrupted with a shock.

“You–”

He had been trying to find you like a fox finding a bunny, you knew that. Waiting in the shadows, you always see him stalking beyond the darkness. And now you’re right here, finally coexisting in the same space after months of a cat-mouse game. “Can’t exactly talk here,” You yelled, deepening your voice in a pitch that made you cringe. “Let’s put a raincheck on what’s going on here and focus on the weird dimensional-octopus that’s currently beating your ass.” Spider-Man, with a groan of frustration that was just so familiar, noticeably squinted in your direction that had you sweating bullets as he right hooked the head of the monstrosity.

You knew everything about him. He knew nothing about you.

“I’m supposed to be the one and only Spider-Man of this–” He dodged a tentacle aiming for the head, only to unsheathe his claws and start ripping into the flesh of the villain. The smell, something similar to the stench of Sulphur mixed with radioactive chemicals. It burned your enhanced senses, tipping your balance before you caught yourself.

“Well obviously, you’re not.” Steadying your emotions, the calmness of your tone contrasted his irritability. “You know it’s not impossible–” Webs meeting tentacles, the screech of the glitching excrescence interrupting your words before quickly silencing it with another heel to the eyes. Pointing up and then at the watch around his wrist, you gave him a pointed look and a shrug. Nothing was said, but at the exasperated howl at your accusatory gesture– he obviously understood the unsaid.

“I’ve been speaking to you for a minute–” Another punch. “And I’m already finding you the most annoying out of all of them–”

You rolled your eyes, webbing the tentacles of the monster together like shoelaces stuck together. “Gee, thanks tough guy.” No response.

The monstrosity the two of you had been grappling against grew more frantic with its movements, growing more aware of its losing battle by the moment. With defeat in tow, the tentacles split into multiple. Green juice splattering excessively over the city blocks, it screamed horrendously in pain. The dimensional monster was imploding into itself, never allowing it the chance to return back to its universe.

Being so close to the glitching, dramatic death of the slime monster– Spider-Man pushed the heaving half-corpse’s weight off his own in a flurry. Always having to be quick on your feet in this field, you webbed the monster in the air so it could hang uselessly– the death of the anomaly would not be able to interfere with anything amongst Nueva York.

Being on your own despite having so much at your finger-tips, the separation between you and O’Hara made things difficult. You were on your own despite being at the core of everything.

Head buzzing with spider senses, your attention snapped towards the man that is tangled with your entire being– a useless game of push-and-pull that neither one of you are giving into.

Spider-Man miscalculated the leap away, his claws trying to find purchase in the metal beams of the building. But something was wrong, the slime running down his forearms ruining his suit’s resistance.

The structure O’Hara clung to was threatening to crumble due to the constant strain of the battle, doused in the greasy muck that pixelated and discolored by each passing moment the villain was close to combusting entirely. Before you knew it, the construction of the building that was so complexly fabricated was coming down and shifting into rubble on the borough down below.

Your limbs began moving on its own, your mind racing into a frenzy of saving the people down below and the man you revolved around like the sun and moon– unknowing forces pushing the two of you together but never touching.

Until now.

The collision lasted only seconds, but to you it was as if the eclipse was forever. Skin sizzling with nerves you didn’t even know you could feel ignited aflame, the pads of your feet coming into contact with the building’s crumbling walls– diving into spaces and using the webs you shot as a catapult.

Your hold came into contact with a body before you knew it, warm and intimate like you were back in his home. Tucked away in the softness of his duvet, your arms wrapped around his skin like an anchor against the raging waves. Memories came flooding in, lightheaded with your spider senses crying out in danger against the puzzle pieces that placed O’Hara on a pedestal. The first rose he gave you floated through the crevices of your brain, an astray petal landing softly on a memory you forced down.

The radioactive spider that latched its fangs into your skin on the night you met O’Hara, pain mixing with anticipation.

It's like the city lights grew more vibrant at the realization, soda blue mixing with dragon fruit pink– lime green swirling with sunny yellow. Everything fits together. This was how it was supposed to go, despite all the pain.

Strength you’ve built up allowed yourself to heave him onto your shoulder, breathing heavily at his weight crushing yours. But determination and adrenaline pushed you further, swinging through the shadowed city until you found a safe perch– laying him down gently. Time was running out, but you had to do what needed to be done.

Ripping on the tattered mask upon your face, you scooped up his head into a soft grasp. Right hand behind his neck and the other leaning the back of his head towards your unearth identity, his lenses tiredly widened at the abrupt reveal.

Tears you didn’t know you had in you– not shedding a tear ever since the day the two of you broke up– flooded your eyes and rolled down your sliced skin. Salt mixed with flesh, the pain kept you wide awake and aware.

“Still the most annoying one you ever met?” You couldn’t help but try to ease the tension in the atmosphere, yet failing with obvious reason.

O’Hara whispered your name like a blessing, claw upon his chest meeting the dirt on your cheek in the softest graze he’s ever bestowed against you. “You– you’re here.”

“I’m here.” You echoed, resting your forehead against his own. His suit caressed against your skin, and the world stopped. All that you could hear was his soft wheezing of breath and your own, and suddenly everything felt okay.

“¿Cómo puede ser eso?” He muttered aloud, “How can this be? How are you here?” he became a mumbling mess as nervousness clutched his rationality. O’Hara’s hand swiping against your jaw shifted to the small of your back in a hug. It was like nothing had ever happened, and you were about to fall in the ravine of his presence before a ear-blasting trill of beams breaking pulled you back into reality. You stood up, rolling your mask back on before looking down below. A miracle was going to have to happen for everything to turn out okay, but you were willing to take that risk. He called your name, reaching the hand not clutching his side out in desperation. “Don’t do this– you can’t change–”

You kept your back turned, shooting your webs onto a piece of rubble falling for leverage. “Don’t you dare fucking move.” Was the last thing you said before you plunged into the chaos that was unravelling Nueva York from the inside out.

☆

The abrasion of concrete rubbing against your skin carved into your skin, until it didn’t. Dust threatened to enter your lungs as you weaved in and out of obstacles created from the fissures of collapsing high-rises, bodies clasping onto you like a lifeline– until that ended as soon as you started as well.

Everything made sense finally, and then it stopped. Paused as soon as it strengthened, disentangling memories and causing fragmentation.

Lips met yours, the firm grasp of palms against your hips. “Cariño, you don’t understand how much I’ve thought about my mouth on yours since we last met.” A familiar voice whispered into your ear, kneading into your flesh as each syllable rolled out lazily. But the warm breath fanning the side of your face never came, and the wisps of hair that met your forehead never tickled you.

The touch of an elevator button against your index ignited your senses, bags dragging down your tired form. The thud of knees meeting tile followed, before ending with sobs echoing in the corners of your mind.

Darkness enveloped your mind, the vibrancy of neon lights that grew so comforting never came.

Cold metal met your limbs, grazing your chest and the beeping of a scan met your ears. Orange hues painted the darkness for just a moment, before vanishing like a hallucination. Little bits and pieces of words would echo throughout the chamber you’ve found yourself in– “When do you think,” – “¡Mierda! Are you even doing your job correcting?!” – “Let me take over,” “You have no idea what you are even looking at, Miguel!” – “But you do?!”

It was like this for a while, until the words grew closer and the colors overlapping pitch black spread like webs.

The first thing you felt was a weight on your leg, thigh trapped under the pressure of something breathing and shifting ever so slightly. The covers lying atop your form was nothing close to the softness you were used to, instead the scratchy fabric brushed against your skin and the thin gown you felt as you twitched.

Your muscles ached, both out of stiffness and the strain of what you remember: the buildings collapsing around you, rubble piercing your skin. Your throat felt dry, the lights overhead intruded against your eyelids. The metal sensation from before, cold and icy, trailed along your arms as you woke.

Peeling your gaze open, your spider senses went into overdrive. It feels as if your body had sunken into the pit of an ocean, drowning and heavy with salt water flooding your pores.

The first to catch your eye was the spider-shaped robotic machinery tending to your wounds, scabbed and bandaged with care. Your fists curled into the bed you rested against; the smell of chemicals embedded within the fabric burned at your nostrils. The luminescence of the lamps on the bedside counter were dimmed low as your gaze adjusted to the sensory intake, breathing deeply in a way to calm yourself.

This place was nothing you’ve ever seen before, but with an abundance of spider-themed gadgetry adorned along the wall and medical systems– alongside the hyper-technologically advanced computer interfaces connected to the tubed legs of the metallic spiders accessing the wounds you had, you assumed it must have been the Spider Society HQ you’ve heard in passing. The building above the greenery beyond Nueva York, a vision you were only able to get glimpses from riding the train.

Holding your breath, you looked at the weight atop your thigh.

A tuft of combed-back brown curls met your stare before tracing the few strands hanging delicately over his forehead. His eyes were fluttered shut, eyebrows furrowed as if he was having a bad dream. Deep stress lines you desperately wanted to thumb away rested in-between his brow, leading you to the circles under his closed eyes. Deep and prominent against olive skin, O’Hara was now in a slightly modified, upgraded version of his navy blue suit that had none of the previous damage from the battle you stumbled upon.

His head lay against your thighs heavily, breathing in your scent deeply as he dozed off. Every few snores, he’d stutter in his sleep as if he was about to shock himself awake– but he easily settled back in the softness of your muscle after his hand upon your stomach would grab the flesh of your stomach softly.

You took a moment to study him. There’s been a few times you’ve sighted him in the streets, usually his mask covering his identity always. This is the first time you’ve truly had him so close and the realization of it all made your palms sweat and your stomach churn. The usual quips and your homemade spider-mask could not save you now, you were in the den of a lion’s. He quite literally had you in his grasp.

The knowledge you had of this place was limited, not being a part of the Spider Society because you had to avoid him– and now that everything has been revealed in regards to both of your secrets you had no idea what to do from here. Not like you could do much right now though, your bones feel fragile and your muscles feel weak. How long have you been holed up in this cage?

A groan escaped O’Hara’s lips, a frown contorting his features. Under the spell of sleep, he looked much more soft. The rigidness of his stoicism couldn’t plague his expression as dreams consumed him, but as his frown deepened and the lines between his eyebrows became more prominent,, you couldn’t help but slide your hand underneath his. Squeezing it, his scarred fingers subconsciously intertwined with yours without a moment’s hesitation.

A smile bloomed onto your lips at the sight, your heart running a marathon at the closeness you were allowed. All the anger festered up from that night ebbed away with time and understanding– having the role as a Spiderperson since the split made you candidly comprehend the stress and dedication one has to have. With the experience, the hardness O’Hara had on himself and others suddenly made sense, and as the confusion cleared– love remained. The man within your reach finally, has always been in the corners of your mind, memories unearthed by every little thing in your life. You may have changed your route to work, but then you started to pass his favorite restaurant. You may have changed your body wash, but the scent of praline underlined the floral smell of ocean breeze.

He was always there, one way or another.

Silence enveloped the room, minus the soft beeping and the slight hiss that escaped you whenever one of the freaky looking medical spiders zapped skin back into place. Yet, as you sat there quietly while looking outside the window, tracing flying cars with your gaze or simply admiring the amount of green you’ve possibly ever seen before– a shaky voice met your rhythmic, soft breathing.

Your name was the first thing he said, disbelief lacing his tone before both his hands scooped up the clutch you held onto him with delicacy, like he was hiding away a treasure in the palm of his hands. “Can’t believe anything any of this–”

“How… how long was I out, O’Hara?” Your voice didn’t sound like your own, fragile and meek. It made you feel pathetic– being able to save so many people in less than two minutes and suddenly you couldn't even bring yourself to speak. Without a word, he reached over to the bedside table to fiddle with a water bottle and a straw. He set the straw to your lips, grabbing your chin to take the straw.

He sighed, tutting like a worried mother hen. “Don’t use your voice so much, cisne. Drink.” It’s been so long since you’ve been waited on hand-and-foot that it almost made you annoyed, but you did what he said because you are bedridden after all. And in a way, it made you feel like he cared. The way O’Hara’s thumb swiped your lower lip when water trickled down your chin was calculated, as if he was trying to embed the feeling into his brain again.

“You had been slipping in-and-out of consciousness over the past week and a half.” He murmured, leaning into your space as your free hand patted on his chest to indicate you had enough water. A soft frown threatened at his lips, worry evident in his gaze.

Coughing from choking down so much water, the question tumbled from your mind without second-thinking. “And how long have you been here?” You felt your cheeks hearten due to the lack of filter, but a part of you really wanted to know.

Your embarrassment transferred to him as soon as the question hung into the hair, his gaze ripping away from your own. His frown wobbled at getting caught within the act, vulnerability showing through for once between the amount of time the two of you have shared. “I’ve..” Having an internal battle with himself, he exhaled with stress in defeat. “Been here since you got here.” Your eyes lit up, and he only groaned at your obvious excitement.

“You were worried.”

“I was– I was not worried– dios mío–”

You sat up further on the pillows behind you, pointing into his chest as he leaned further away in lighthearted mortification of finally having to talk about his feelings. “O’Hara! You were! You were worried!”

“If I admit it will you stop repeating yourself–”

“Yes,”

O’Hara’s brow furrowed as if he was in physical pain, leaning back into the chair he sat right beside your bed. His hands still stuck firming around your sweating ones, his head leaned back in exasperation. “I was worried. I am always worried about you. I was scared shitless sitting there on that ledge while you dived into the unknown.”

Breath stuttering, you held the air within your lungs for a long second. It felt like a dream, having the Miguel O’Hara hunched over with his hands around your own like a delicate doll, flushed and embarrassed because he finally has to admit his feelings. The urge to kiss him overwhelmed you, and if you had the strength to lean forward and do so, you would. But exhaustion was dwelled deep into your limbs, and you didn’t want to overexert yourself.

“And, and– stop calling me that. Jesus, it’s like hearing a teacher addressing me.”

This caught your attention as his scarlet eyes met yours, swirling with a flurry of emotions that screamed of intensity. “Calling you what?” You asked, trying to sound indifferent when truly you were just teasing him. But he was more than observant– and when he caught you trying to play him like you were a guitarist and he was your bass. This only riled him up more.

“O’Hara?! I’m Miguel to you, Miguel.” His hands tightened around your own as he repeated his name twice, almost like a plea. “Stop making me act like a child, I have a reputation to uphold–”

“You became O’Hara the day you broke up with me.” Low blow, and quite petty– but you wanted to test if he truly had changed.

The rant you cut off halted without another word, O’Hara’s forehead meeting your thigh as if you just slapped him atop the head when you knocked sense into him. “I didn’t know what else to do.” His voice choked up almost instantaneously, his emotions as high as ever like he just processed you were truly here and talking to him. “And look at where we ended up.” The latter didn’t sound like he was speaking to you, more like he was stuck in his head someplace far away. “Your safety was what mattered the most to me– and back then these people, these people threatened to remove you from here. Wipe you off the plane of this universe like you never even happened.”

You were silent as his hands kneaded into your thighs gently, fingertips trailing up your stomach like he was trying to remember every part of your body again unconsciously. “I didn’t want to lose you, and for the longest time I pushed it away as much as I could until I couldn’t anymore.”

Your brain clicked and churred, gears rolling back in place in your post-coma fog. “.. Is that why you were so stressed, so different throughout the end of our relationship?”

Miguel sighed heavily, tears threatening to fall as if an entire world was lifted off his shoulders. “.. Yes. Yes, I’m not proud of it. I’m really not proud of myself.” He repeated, confessing his sins like you were the pastor and he was a sinner. “I just was terrified for you to be gone.”

“.. I’m tired of having so much loss in my life.” It was barely above a whisper, but you heard it.

His shoulders raised, stammering as if he was holding himself back. Without a word, you shrugged your hand from his own. Scarlet gaze meeting yours in surprise, fangs on display unknowingly as his mouth slacked– your arms raised towards him and instantly he allowed himself to melt into your embrace.

“I didn’t know.” Was all you said.

“I didn’t want you to know,” He murmured against your cheek, breath fanning your ear and arms meeting your back strongly. Just like your dreams. Miguel’s words trailed off anxiously, before concluding with something you haven’t heard in a long time, “mi cielo.”

Tears soaked your shoulder sleeve, but you didn’t care. “But I want you to know everything now. I want you to be a part of my life now, we can get through it all–”

A small frown met your lips, heart clenching at his words. “I, I can’t–

“Mi pajarito, please,” Miguel breathed in deeply, “I really, really have missed you.” His hold surrounding you tightened subtly. The buzz of floating cars whizzed by as silence enveloped the both of you, the noise of watches sounding throughout the hallway kept you grounded. Drilled it into your head that this was truly happening, that you’re here with Miguel with both of your secrets unveiled. Under each other's protection.

“Miguel, I.. I can’t be hurt again.” You wanted him, wanted him more than anything. But something snatched your heart up and forced it into an aviary. It raged against the railings of its captor, fluttering with desperation. You were scared of rejection again, the repressed emotions flooding your senses and making you sob. Miguel held you as you cried and continued to do so, tracing shapes into your skin like all those months ago. “Please don’t leave me again.”

The plea escaped you through tears, Miguel promised and promised and promised as he swiped away the wetness amongst your cheeks, his cold exterior he kept affront during your relationship crashed down in waves as his own tears pressed into your skin. “I’m so sorry. Please, please like you gave me– give me a second chance.”

His fingers trailed up, grasping the nape of your neck while the other caressed your cheek with a shakiness you’ve never seen before. Always so confident, it reminded you of the brokenness you witnessed on the last night you were together. But this felt genuine, the looming fear and despair hanging over his head all those months ago were fanned away with time. This was Miguel’s honest attempt at vulnerability.

You stared into his tearful eyes, a smile playing at your lips as your hands sat upon his own holding your face. Leaning in, your nose brushed his as your eyes fluttered shut. Your lips, chapped and cold, met his contrasting warm and refined touch. Miguel presumably did not care, as his fingers intertwined with your hair and grasped your chin with a sparked need. The kiss was short and sweet, as the two of you breathed into each other’s mouth. Relishing in the moment, you pushed forward again as desperation seeped into your rationality.

Your hands moved from his own to his shoulders, pulling him deeper into the kiss and he just consumed whatever space you gave him. Miguel was aware of every muscle he pushed against you, but as the both of you clawed into each other’s flesh Miguel’s resolve to stay gentle ebbed away as his spit swapped with yours. It was if you were a struggling flower, and he was both the air and sun and water combined. He was everything you needed, and he was everything you wanted. To you, he was the sun and you were the moon– seeing one another in passing but never touching until today.

But to him, you were the stars that littered the sky. A comet passing by, beautiful and alluring. You were in each neon sign of Nueva York, where he stared a little too hard and could see a figure of you that was constructed from the little imagination he had left.

He saw you in the headquarters he overworked himself in to forget you. He saw you in the shadows of the city he protected. Miguel saw you in everything he believed in, yet everything he went against simultaneously.

But he’ll learn to make exceptions with himself and the rules he place, because as his fangs dig into your lower lip and the noise that erupts from your throat wraps him around your finger– Miguel tries to understand how he ever let you go.

“Miguel, you kiss me once and you’re already trying to bite me–” You begin to scold in your little way, until Miguel shushes you with another kiss to the lips.

“It’s all out of love, cariño.”

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara comfort #miguel o'hara angst #x gender neutral reader #miguel ohara #across the spiderverse #across the spider-verse #across the spiderverse x reader #spiderman 2099 #x angst #x comfort #comfort #angst

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illyrian-dreamer · 11 months ago

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Dance with the devil – Part 1

Rhysand x fem!reader series

Summary: You attempt to rob the High Lord of the Night Court.

Words: 3.3k

TW: Violence, death

Notes: Morally grey Rhysand below the cuff 😈😈😈

»»——-　★　——-«« ★ »»——-　★　——-««

Tick, tick, tick.

That stern voice nagged in your mind, laced with forewarning and impatience that only frustrated you further.

You had just minutes to find the scroll and get out.

With gritted teeth, you leaned closer, drowning out that voice - likely your mothers - as well as the drumming of your heart, waiting for that final click.

You were versed in charming locks, picking them when you had to, just as you did now. And what waited on the other side of this door was worth every swallow of bile, every rise and swell of panic that begged you to think of the consequence - of what would happen if you were caught.

It was only a half-moon prior that you had snuck into the infamous libraries of the Day Court while the city slept, hunting concealed maps and etchings of Helion’s castle. You studied the corridors and winding staircases of the impressive home, squinting through the flickering glow of the small fae light you had allowed yourself to cast, anxious eyes lifting reluctantly every so often, humouring the phantom furl of a page or shiver down your spine.

So you pressed those routes to memory – sewers, plumbing, hidden passageways marked in some maps and not others. They were your only true salvage if things went wrong.

Weapons were now strapped to every part of your leathers that would allow, layers of magic shielding your scent and sound so strong it made your joints ache, as if buckling under their weight.

Easy in, easy out, quick on your feet and don't look back.

That mantra was your only comfort as you silently slipped into the lavish guest suite, a breath of relief that its layout matched your efforts of breaking into the libraries. Because although night never found this court, there was only a small window in which the High Lords were away from their suites, and time was a persistent foe.

It was incredibly risky to break into the guest quarters of the High Lord of the Night Court, especially after Hellion had declared his home a neutral grounds for the High Lord’s meeting. But what Rhysand possessed was invaluable – that scroll of ancient tongue, the only one of it’s kind. It was worth the risk of your own life, of certain death if you were caught.

Careful, gloved fingers sifted through the papers on the desk, making sure not to leave anything out of place.

The details you had gained on the High Lord were valuable – he was neat, more than neat, really – his room immaculate and organised. A paper left rippled, a chair at a slight angle, even a stray hair on the sprawling marble floor – all were things he would surely notice.

But you could tread lightly, could play to that game of fine detail. Nimble as a mouse – that’s how your father had always described you, affection warming his face as he compared you to your boisterous brother.

With a clench of your heart, you forced the memory out. Once you had that scroll – soon. You would be together again soon.

As you crouched low to sift through the chestnut draws, mahogany carved with the kind of finery that made you sick, a hint of gold gleamed from the corner of the room, the light catching your eye.

Padding with quiet creaks from your boots, you allowed yourself only a moment to admire the array of scrolls that lay in the wooden chest – it’s lid tipped open, beckoning to be explored. In the centre perched the most exotic of the artefacts. Boring rings of gold, it winked at you, a true diamond in the rough.

With gentle inspection, you traced the characters etched in it’s casing, a cryptic ode of ancient tongue.

A whisper of magic kissed your face, stray hairs dancing as goosebumps prickling beneath your leathers. It was waft of excitement, danger, magic aged by civilisations – this was a powerful scroll indeed.

With a hand on each end of the casing, you gently lifted the scroll into your satchel, careful not to knock it or disturb the casing. You would return it after all, once traced.

There was a shift in the air then, and a sinking feeling rippled through your abdomen, like a stone dropped into still water.

Get out – that voice urged.

You had spent too long here already.

Swallowing the fastening hammer of your heart, you raised from your knees, eyeing the unsuspecting cupboard – behind it a hidden door, and behind that a winding pathway would lead you clear to the gardens.

You almost scoffed – this was easier than you had thought.

How could the High Lord be so reckless to leave something of this value lying about?

The pit of your stomach deepened.

Too easy – much, much too easy.

An open, gaping well.

Oh gods, this was a–

And then darkness – everywhere.

You gasped, catching glimpses of red and blue as you staggered back. Your back hit something solid – no, someone. Strong arms gripped yours wrists, pinning them behind you. You tried to yell, but your breath hitched as violet eyes glowered amongst the tendrils of midnight smog, choking any sound that whined in your throat.

“Well well, what do we have here?” a sultry voice purred, a refined silhouette emerging from the darkness, tall and broad.

A gleam of teeth pulled with a feline smile, the figure prowling closer. Dangerous, lethal, ever knowing with a hint of cockiness.

And as tendrils of night magic cleared around their master, the High Lord of the Night Court was revealed.

Rhysand’s eyes danced with amusement as he watched realisation set in – your own features taut with horror.

“Hello, Y/N darling.”

You were dead meat.

A heavy, intrusive sensation caused a shiver to rack through you as phantom claws tore through your useless shields, and you were suddenly overwhelmed by the scent of your own fear.

Rhysand’s pretty grin only grew.

In a hopeless attempt to flee, you barely moved an inch as you tugged against the impossible grip on your arms.

He was closing in, coldness seeping from him as his magic curling in on itself, devouring any hints of warmth from the room, from your own veins.

And then he stopped, just one agonising pace shy from your heaving chest.

Here he was – High Lord of the Night Court. Wickedly cruel, arrogant and unnervingly calm, a cat who toyed with its food. The legendary villain of whispered rumours and horror stories exchanged amongst children of your village in the court of Dawn, parents so tired from their youngens loss of sleep that he was a banished name from many households.

Your eyes danced with a panic as instincts forced you to look for any chance of survival. Dressed with finery, but not a weapon on him – that was good.

But as the shadows began to clear, another male was revealed perching patiently against the wall behind, blue siphons flickering as he stood with wide legs, arms crossed and face stoic. Azriel, the Shadowsinger and Spymaster, waited patiently for your attempt of escape, his own shadows at the ready.

Fuck.

That meant the male that bound you was Cassian – Warlord and Chief General of the Illyrian armies.

You were as good as dead.

Your breathing stuttered as you swallowed the plea for mercy begging at your lips. They were going to kill you, that was certain. You could only hope they would do it quickly.

“My my, Y/N,” Rhysand drawled, his voice playful and sensual. “We weren't certain if you were going to take the bait.”

Placing hands on knees, he lowered himself to your level, those violet eyes captivating you, their depth incomprehensible. You tried to break Rhys’s gaze, but you rendered helpless, realising the cruel use of his magic.

“But I’m so glad this is how we get to meet.”

He was expecting you?

You glared back, your breaths quickening at the dangerous proximity.

If not at his mercy, you would have spat at his condescending manner. But instead you fought aimlessly against Cassian’s hold, the male pulling you back against his chest with a jarring tug, his grip tightening until you felt your pulse in your wrists.

Your mind was scattering with each second, frantic eyes dancing at the High Lord before you. You hadn't expected him to be so… handsome.

“Why, thank you,” Rhys cocked an eyebrow at you, that cat like grin exchanged for a lob-sided one.

Had he just–? You scowled, cursing him silently. His abilities as a deamanti also deeming true.

Rhysand chuckled at your foul words, his laugh unexpectedly soft. “Such a feisty thing you are,” he commented, raking his purple eyes down your body. You suddenly felt incredibly exposed, despite the layers of leathers and weaponry you wore.

“Let me go,” you spat hoarsely, heaving against the General once more.

“You’re not in any position to make that request,” Cassian huffed, pulling back on the little distance you had gained. His voice was gruff as it hummed through your back.

You turned your head to look at the Warlord for the first time. He too, like the other males in the room, was noticeably handsome. His long hair fell into his face as he looked down at you, his eyes almost as amused as his High Lord.

Were you just a joke to them?

“Oh, sweet Y/N, you’re not a joke at all. We’re actually quiet impressed by you,” Rhysand toyed, his eyebrows raised with a mocking tone. “We know you’ve been trailing us for months, Azriel here picked up on your movements in our court a whole quarter year ago.”

You flicked your eyes to the Spymaster, his position and face unmoving at his mention. You couldn't help your scowl at the male who was responsible to securing your death.

“What we didn't expect, was for you to make it this far,” Rhysand continued with a chuckle, his head shaking in playful dismay.

Great – now on top of everything else, you were completely insulted.

“That’s why we set this trap for you. So we could finally meet.”

You frowned at Rhysand. You had been so careful, so stealthy about all your work in spying on the High Lord, slaving over maps and reports until you could no longer keep your eyes open, using the little money you had to buy off secrecy, and always covering your tracks. But it still hadn't been enough.

“Don’t look so disheartened, little mouse,” Rhysand purred, before he picked a piece of lint off his fitted black jacket. “The fact that you were able to break into my quarters alone is incredibly impressive.”

It had in fact, taken a lot of work. To sneak into Hellion’s home had taken three disenchantment spells, and compromised a suite of his guards who were yet to rise from their enchanted slumber. The locks and spells on Rhysand’s chamber were another thing in itself.

“What will you do with me?” you gritted, glaring between the males in front of you, desperate to know your fate.

Rhysand dipped his head back and laughed, his posture too calm, too casual.

“What will we do with you, hmm?” he repeated, and a shrinking instinct finding you, one that you hadn't felt since you were a child.

“Perhaps the question is, what would you like us to do with you?” It was a lovers voice, sensual and suggestive.

You couldn't help the thunder of your heart as his scent filled your nose, crudely laced with arousal as it found you with a phantom wind.

Rhysand was on you then, his face inches from your own as swirls of night filled your vision, his violet eyes the only light you could see.

You gasped at the sight before you – it was beautiful, but so, so deadly.

“I don’t like having my things taken from me, Y/N.” Rhysand growled, his voice now cold, unforgiving. Those same claws that tore your shields now traced the outskirts if your mind, talons sinking slightly in warning.

Despite the little pain, it was instinct to scream.

You tried to make quick peace at the thought of his violet eyes being the last thing you would ever see.

Open your eyes, he commanded mind to mind.

Without realising you had closed them, you found yourself unable to disobey.

Rhysand withdrew as quickly as he had pounced, his darkness disappearing with him as he slid his hands into his pockets, rocking on fine shoes. His behaviour was erratic, such a contrast to the moment before.

“Of course, it would be such a waste of good talent.” He shrugged nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t toyed with your very consciousness just moments before.

You watched him pace, your eyes flicking to the spymaster once more, before noting the exits of the room you knew well.

“You don't stand a chance,” Azriel spoke plainly, his hand fingering one of many blades strapped to his strong frame. A warning, from one spy to another.

Rhysand grinned between you two, running a smooth hand through his black-blue hair.

Was he entertained by the idea that you were willing to give a fight?

You felt a low rumble from Cassian’s chest, all three males daring you to challenge them in their own way.

Azriel was right – it was suicide to try.

Rhysand hummed with pleasure, reading your submission as your body sagged every so slightly.

“I’ll tell you what, Y/N. I’ll make you a deal.”

A bargain, a promise, and perhaps a riddle from Prythian’s deadliest High Lord.

“I’d rather you kill me,” you said tightly.

Rhysand laughed again, and you felt the movements of Cassian’s chuckle from behind.

“Oh, sweetheart. Surely there’s a tad more fight in you than that?”

You scowled in return.

Rhysand approached you again, now holding the scroll of ancient tongue.

“What do you know of this scroll?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Try again.”

You winced. “I don't know anything.”

Rhysand tutted. “Little liar,” he grinned at you, his violet eyes sparkling with challenge. “I’ll ask one more time,” he sang.

You felt them again, and it took all you had to not crumble at Cassian’s boots at the flooding pain as Rhysand dragged a singular, scraping talon across your mind and back.

“Resurrection!” you yelped – a half breath, half scream escaping you as your legs gave out. Cassian held you up, your body rigid as Rhysand’s talon pierced your mind further. The pain was blinding, eliciting a howl from you as your vision flashed with white.

Yet Rhysand’s icy threat cut through. “I have a lot of enemies, Y/N. I don't suppose you are hoping to fetch a pretty penny for anyone who might seek to bring back the rightfully dead?”

“No, n-no!” you gasped, your body spasming and contorting as he continued to toy with you. “Please, it’s for m-my family!”

Rhysand left your mind as quickly as he had entered it. You sagged in relief, Cassian gently setting you down as your crumpled to the floor, your body shaking and twitching.

You had just enough energy to raise your eyes and meet the High Lord’s stare. Gone was his expression of cruel amusement, it was now replaced with a frown of serious, deep thought.

He had seen them – your family, their smiles and laughter as your memory flashed at their mention. That meant he had also seen their deaths, their limp bodies piled for you to find in your own home.

“You wish to resurrect them?” Rhys asked softly.

All you could do was nod. You were sure you weren't noting a sense of sympathy from the male.

Rhys shook his head, his eyes closing. “If it were that easy Y/N, I’d have the missing kin to my own family here today.”

You looked up at the High Lord through heavy lids, exhaustion overcoming your body with an occasional twitch.

“I have to try,” was all you could offer, your voice small and unsure.

Rhysand stared down at you with furrowed brows, serious yet unreadable. After a few moments, he blinked, a few stars returning to his eyes as he raised them to Cassian with a quick nod.

Strong hands unfurled from your arms, and Cassian stepped back, providing you some space on the marbled tiles as you shook.

Death then, at last. May the Mother have mercy, let it be quick, you prayed silently.

A gentle pull of your hand from your face, and your fingers were forced to close around a ovoidal object.

Rhysand was crouched in front of you, his face unreadable as his cold hand kept your fingers pressed to the scroll

“I’ll tell you what Y/N. You find a way to decipher this scroll and bring back your family. And when you do, you share that information with me, so that I may do the same.”

You pulled your hand back, eyes darting between his violet ones as if you read the trick that undoubtedly hid beneath his offer.

“And why in Mother’s name would I trust you?”

He smirked humourlessly. “Unless you prefer the alternative –“ Rhysand’s eyes blackened instantly, and your heart skipped a beat at the promise of death that beheld them. “– I don’t believe you have a choice.”

Make a bargain with the High Lord, or die. Not in a thousand lifetimes could you have predicted an ultimatum so soulless.

“Do we have a deal?” Rhysand offered his large hand as he still crouched before you, his eyebrows raising with a hint of impatience.

You flicked your gaze between Azriel and Cassian. Both of them watched patiently, their stances neutral, obedient of their High Lord’s business. It bothered you – how were both of them so complicit to his evil?

Looking back at Rhysand – you ignored the voice inside you that screamed at you not to trust him.

Letting out a short breath, you lifted yourself to your knees and clasped your hand in his. “It’s a deal.”

A gasp escaped you as a stinging heat spread across the hand held in his, and etched it’s way up your forearm. With wide eyes, you watched the burn and itch of a ink-like pattern forming on your skin. Swirls now covered your once naked arm, the picture of one hand shaking another stark on the inside of your palm. It was your hand in Rhysand’s – a symbol of the bargain you had just agreed to. For eternity, or until you deciphered this scroll you realised, with no lack of nausea.

Rhysand grinned, marvelling the matching tattoo that now tainted his skin. “I’ll be checking in on your progress frequently, Y/N darling.”

Unable to find the right words for you distaste, you snatched your hand away and pressed against your stomach, willing your self not to be sick.

You were now indebted to this hellish, sinister being.

Rhysand appeared as unfazed. “Perhaps you would consider a job in my court with Azriel?” he mused, flexing his fingers as he continued to take in the impressive detail of your bargain. “Again, we were quite impressed with your work.”

He was teasing of course, and Azriel’s hazel eyes winced with humour as all three males watched for your reaction.

You scowled at Rhysand, glaring up at him again. “I prefer my freedom, actually,” you snarled.

Rhysand laughed in his sensual way, before grinning a wicked smile down at you. “Or what’s left of it.

He straightened then, his wig men moving to his sides with grace – a practiced dance for all three.

“I suggest you excuse yourself from my quarters the moment we’re gone Y/N, I’ll know otherwise.”

With a clasp to his shoulders from Azriel and Cassian, the three males were gone in a ripple of odourless night.

Until then, little spy, Rhysand’s voice echoed in your mind.

»»——-　★　——-«« ★ »»——-　★　——-««

AN: Ok new series let's gooooo!! Welcome to DWTD! Hello morally grey mosthandsomehighlordofthenightcourt 💞😈 I am so so excited to explore this series with y'all. Pleeeeease let me know what you think of part 1, I wrote this over so many months lol I hope it tied together. General tag list is tagged, but if you'd like to join a tag list for this series (DWTD), comment below! La la love you guys, hope you're all safe and doing ok 💞

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profoundbondfanfic · 2 months ago

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Hey I have been looking for Dark Dean and Castiel fics where Dean is OBSESSED with Castiel do you have any recommendations?

Hey hey! Sorry for the delay, but I hope these recs are welcomed now just in time for Halloween.

A bit of a warning though -- some of these fics get really dark and involve very intense subjects so pls mind the tags before reading these.

all that’s sacred comes from youth by fullvoid (Mature, 8k words)

Teenage Dean has a dark, possessive streak he hides well. But when he and Cas agree to get married at age 35 if neither of them has by then, he finds he can't quite just leave it at that and spends years stalking Cas from the shadows and sabotaging every relationship he starts. Or Dean, in love with his best friend Cas and obsessed with a pact they made when they were 17 years old, gets rid of his boyfriends one by one through escalating means.

Between Love and Agony by Duckyboos (Explicit, 53k words)

Dean Winchester is in love. Like, bonafide heart eyes and deep sighs, hung-the-moon love. There's just one problem: the lucky guy is his husband's identical twin, Castiel. The two of them have been having a kinky affair for years, burrowing under each other’s skin and setting up camp. Which is why, after Castiel goes missing, Dean’s about ready to tear the world apart looking for him. When Castiel eventually returns to him, he’s been through literal hell, managing to drag himself out, bloody and raw, for Dean. Together, they discover a way to make Castiel whole again — though the price will be gruesome… and there will certainly be hell to pay.

CONventional Psychopathy 'Verse by Mayalaen (Explicit, 441k words)

Castiel Novak is a Cleaner. One of the agency's best. He and his Handler, Dean Winchester, have a high success rate in a world where the worst criminals aren't imprisoned for their crimes, but instead are captured by licensed serial killers who dispose of them, doing what they do best while getting paid for it. Cas doesn't form attachments, doesn't leave himself open for a risk like that, but Dean wormed his way into Cas' life and into his house. Does Dean realize what falling in love with a serial killer really means?

Do Anything For You by ImYourHoneyBee (Explicit, 7k words)

“How’re you feeling?” his earlier worry and fear have faded into the background because of how freaking good Jimmy looks right now, but that’s the thing to ask. Besides, even if he was planning on killing him soon, propriety has to be observed. Dean has a reputation to uphold as a fine, upstanding citizen in this city. Patrick Bateman wishes he was as smooth as Dean is. “Better than the guy who hit me,” Jimmy tells him with uncharacteristic bluntness, nodding toward the curtained-off bed, “I overheard the doctors saying he flatlined around the same time I did.” “Oh shit,” Dean says, glancing over to try and mask the sick roil that sets up shop in his stomach. “He make it?” The ghost of a smile plays over Jimmy’s chapped lips, “He’s in a better place now.” x The one where Cas's soul takes over Jimmy's body.

Free to Be You and Me by jhoom (Explicit, 49k words) --- This says incomplete but it's a satisfying ending so we think the author just didn't close it out.

Dean lost his parents in a fire when he was younger, and he’s never been the same since. Based on the prompt: "I was ten years old when I witnessed the murder of my entire family. The police told me that the person I saw commit the crime was a figment of my imagination - a result of the trauma - but I couldn’t let it rest. In a strange way, they saved me - with everyone else gone I might have gone to pieces, but I HAD to find the killer, so I held it together, I got through school, I rose through the ranks of detective, and now finally, finally, I’m on their trail. I have to find them. I have to meet them. I have to tell them that I love them."

Hello Night by almaasi (Explicit, 11k words)

Demon!Dean/Priest!Cas AU. Castiel summons Dean to the crossroads, and he only wants one thing: him.

Make Me by saltnhalo (Explicit, 4k words)

A beautiful man on a motorbike shows up at Castiel's business with a t-shirt that says Make me and a smirk that could put the devil to shame. How is Castiel possibly meant to resist?

Monsters by Miss_Lv (Explicit, 11k words)

Castiel prayed to God, to help them, to save them. God never answered. But Dean did. It was the monster who saved Castiel, not God.

Seven Heavenly Virtues by Strixes (Explicit, 108k words)

The Mark of Cain turns Dean into a demon once more. Dean is adamant that this time he's found a way to keep the mark under control but it's clear to Castiel that Dean needs help if he's going to fight the mark's influence until they can find a way to get rid of it. More than anything Castiel wants to save him, but if anyone needs to be saved it's Castiel as he tries to navigate where Dean ends and the Mark of Cain begins.

The Prodigal Bond by vipjuly (Explicit, 68k words)

In exchange for conjugal visits, Dean Winchester gives FBI Supervisory Special Agent Castiel Novak all the dirt he needs to bring down national crime rings. It's a tit-for-tat situation; primal, animalistic, and probably ten kinds of illegal. When a case is revealed to be closer to Castiel than what he considers safe, he and Dean must work together to make sure that Crowley goes down for good. Will Castiel be able to keep Dean at arm's length, or will the charming convict finally get what he's been asking for all along? What lengths will Castiel go to... at Dean's behest?

These Violent Delights by SomethingBlue42, xfancyfranart (Explicit, 43k words)

Dean Winchester, war vet and functioning alcoholic with a life that’s going nowhere, takes a job at Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Dean had never heard of Dr. Castiel Novak notorious serial killer and cannibal given he’d been dodging bullets and performing field triage during Novak’s sensational trial. Seasoned orderly Rufus lays out the rules: Do not touch the glass. Do not approach the glass. You pass him nothing but soft paper - no pencils, no pens. Use the sliding food carrier only, no exceptions. If he attempts to pass you anything, do not accept it. And most importantly: don't tell him anything personal. But Dean was never much for following the rules and Castiel has a way of making Dean feel like he isn’t the grade-a loser his hot-shot FBI agent brother thinks he is. Then, a senator’s daughter goes missing, setting forth a chain of events that put Dean on a path that forces him to choose where his loyalties lie and just how far he’s willing to walk into the dark.

This Tainted Love You've Given by LazarusRose, xfancyfranart (Explicit, 17k words)

Everyone has their hobbies—Dean’s just happens to involve a lot more blood and screaming than most people’s. And sure, maybe murder isn’t the nicest way to blow off steam, but Dean’s always thought that being nice is overrated anyway. His latest victim, a pretty guy with startling blue eyes, should be nothing special, just another nameless body on Dean’s list. But then, after Dean kills and buries him, he turns back up at Dean’s house again the next day. What’s a guy to do when they’ve accidentally gotten an immortal witch convinced that they’ve got some kind of profound bond?

Happy Halloween!!👻🎃

#asks #group rec #horror #dark #fuckup!dean #fuckup!castiel #murder husbands #halloween celebration

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artemismoorea03 · 1 year ago

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DP x DC Prompt: I Couldn't Just Let Him Die

So one thing I don't think is touched on enough is the fact that Danny never wanted to be a hero. Like, yeah, we all know he didn't want o be a hero and he makes a joke about it but when we actually think about it this was a life he choose because nobody else was there to help. The main reason?

He didn't want people to get hurt.

Something Batman would relate to.

Now, while I love the idea of Danny absolutely beating the shit out of Joker or any villain who absolutely deserves to have their shit rocked by a kid who is only 5'5" and weighs at most 120 pounds, when we actually think about Danny's character what's more likely? Again, no hate to any of the people who do those fics, keep it up, I love seeing Joker get his just deserts.

But hear me out.

Warnings for fighting, violence, and DC typical weapons.

There was a new meta in Gotham and he was driving Bruce crazy. This kid showed up out of the blue with absolutely no information on him anywhere online or otherwise with tech so outdated not even Oracle could hack it. The only thing Bruce knew about the kid was that he called himself 'Phantom' and that he was a teenager around 14 years old.

Other than that the kid had been a pain in the ass.

Muggings? Phantom took care of it by saving the person then lecturing the person until a Bat or police showed up then literally vanished.

Fires? Phantom would fly in and out of burning buildings repeatedly with no care for his own safety. No mask, no fire protection, nothing but the thin suit he wore.

Kidnappings? Don't worry, Phantom had it handled long before Batman could even get the call to help! EVEN WHEN IT WAS ONE OF HIS OWN KIDS WHO GOT KIDNAPPED!

Granted, Phantom never got in the way of a fight but the amount of evidence that was lost due to what he was doing and how he was doing it was inconvenient. Fingerprints got wiped, evidence of what started fires were covered in an unmeltable ice, kidnappers took off the second their captive was freed and were practically untraceable after that.

It wasn't until a massive Arkham breakout that he actually got to properly meet the kid. Every prisoner had broken out and the city plunged into madness as heroes ran around like chickens with their heads cut off. Villains against heroes, criminals verse vigilantes, villains verses criminals - it was a madhouse.

Batman could hardly keep track of it all but when one of Penguin's men threw a bomb into a crowd and it landed near Joker's feet there was a long silence. It was like the city had fallen silent all around him as Batman tried to get to the bomb.

Joker was a villain.

Joker had hurt his family, killed millions of innocents including his own son, but he was sick. He didn't deserve to die.

Apparently Phantom agreed because he flew faster than Batman could track him shoving Joker away from the bomb before encasing the bomb in ice.

"Hey! What's the big idea shovin' me, bub?!" Joker said, seemingly forgetting about the bomb that was still in the kids hand. Joker walked right up to Phantom, glaring down at the shorter male who just looked at him. "Think you're some kind of hero?!"

Phantom blinked, "I feel like answering that is a trap."

Joker grabbed Phantom by the front of his shirt, "A funny guy, huh? Think you can out joke the Joker?"

"Again. That feels like a trap. I'm not trying to do anything, Clowny. But I wasn't about to let you die."

Joker glared, "Why?"

Phantom slipped out of Joker's hands somehow, much to Joker's confusion. "Because that's not who I am. Criminal or not, I'm not going to let you die if I can protect you."

"Who says I need protection?"

Phantom held up the bomb again with a deadpan look. "Lucky guess." He said, then suddenly noticed something to his right. "Oh, gotta go. Later Clowny."

"IT'S JOKER!" Joker shouted after Phantom as he flew away. "Batman! Teach your baby bats some manners!"

"He's not mine, Joker." Batman said, marching over, grabbing Joker's wrists and cuffing them behind his back.

Not yet anyway. But with a mentality like that... maybe this pain in the ass could learn a thing or two from a Bat.

#dp x dc prompt #my prompts #dc x dp prompt

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rourouxiaobao · 1 month ago

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MXTX FoodZine 2024 \o/

My MXTX FoodZine 2024 fics are finally live!!! On my AO3, that is (they've been live via the official Zine channels for a while now, just that I was overseas, and then fell sick with Post-Trip Flu).

I contributed 2 fics and 3 recipes for this year's Zine! I was supposed to contribute and 3rd fic (collabbing with someone else's recipe) but time and stress really got to me and I couldn't get it done (to my standards) in time. I'll save it for next year's Zine! :D

My contributions: - MDZS fic + 1 recipe (there are 3 recipes in this collab) - TGCF fic + recipe - Recipe for a SVSSS art collab Info for each contribution below, along with page numbers for where they can be found within the digital Zine! For the fics, you can click/tap on the header or fic cover image to be directed to my fic!

Accusations of Murder (And Other Sibling Things) [MDZS Fic]

Relationships: Xue Yang & A-Qing, Jiang Yanli/A-Qing, Song Lan/Xiao Xingchen Tags: Yi City Fam, Siblings Xue Yang & A-Qing, Sibling Shenanigans, Are You Really Siblings If You Haven't Accused Each Other Of Heinous Crimes At Least Once, Sibling Love Language Is Accusing Your Sibling Of Murdering Your Pet, But You'll Also Die For Them, And You'll Absolutely Murder Anyone Who Fucks With Them, Just Sibling Things, Food Fic, MXTX FoodZine, Suppportive Bro Xue Yang, Coming Out, No Hurt All Comfort, Sibling Bonding, Modern AU Summary: Something is bothering A-Qing and Xue Yang, in his capacity as her insufferable responsible big brother, decides to do something about it.

Bribery with food and unfounded! accusations of murder abound. Pages: 110-115 (Pg110 GhostySword's recipe; Pg111 DJ's recipe card; Pg112 my recipe + DJ's art; Pgs113-115 my fic) Please check the post-fic notes for DJ's and Ghosty's socials!

One Man's Trash Is Another Man's Grocery List [TGCF Fic]

Relationships: Hua Cheng/Xie Lian, He Xuan/Shi Qingxuan, Shi Qingxuan & Xie Lian, Hua Cheng & He Xuan, Jun Wu/Mei Nianqing Tags: Food Fic, MXTX FoodZine, Modern AU, Xie Lian's Absolutely Trash Luck, Xie Lian's Absolutely Trash Cooking Skills, But If There's No Cooking Involved It'll Be Okay Right, In Sanlang We Trust, Getting Drunk, Drunken Shenanigans, Hualian, Beefleaf, Hangover, Meetcute or Meatcute, Undergrad Extracurricular Activities, Getting Together Summary: Through the capricious whims of fate, Xie Lian (someone who can and has burned a pot of water) finds himself registering to be a member of his new university's Cooking Club. Worst still, he has to bring a dish to the annual party for first-year students!

Will the help and advice of his new (best?) friend Sanlang be enough to help him whip up something that won't result in disaster to his kitchen or the local hospital's emergency department? Pages: 229-236 (Pg229 my recipe; Pgs230-236 my fic; Pg236 Misty's art) Please check the post-fic notes for Misty's socials!

Triple-Choco Cookies [SVSSS Recipe Card]

Recipe: Me Art: Inu [inuthe3rd @ Tumblr | Twitter | Instagram ] Page: 53

What Was The Dropped Entry?

It was the SVSSS fic for Li's (chefyli909 on Twitter) Ice Cream Mochi recipe. It's a MoShang fic (with background BingQiu). I had Grand Plans to do a fic for each MXTX-verse. Idk why I keep trying to murder myself lol. I guess with Inu's recipe card, I technically do have an entry/contribution for each, but still... ^^;;;

All that said, please check out the whole Zine for excellent MXTX foodie works by many awesome and talented fanwork creators! ^u^

And many thanks to the MXTX FoodZine team for their hard work and incalculable effort in coordinating yet another year of excellence! I'm so glad to be part of this fantastic Zine once again!

#mxtx foodzine #mxtx foodzine 2024 #mdzs #tgcf #svsss #fanfic #recipes #berry crumble #no-bake trifle #triple chocolate cookies

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valentine-cafe · 2 months ago

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˖⁺. meet me there, I'll give you your roses .𖹭 ݁

﹙ characters. ﹚ ─── our selection of decadent desserts ”

. . . darling specials !! 🍰 : we highly advise that you read our wiki to understand some character lore

꒰ toppings : pinterest ˖ character playlists ꒱

꒰ verse 781 ꒱

tiramisu . . . . . . alessio arias

the unkillable mercenary ˖ male ˖ a punk goth immortal mercenary with a bad boy esque. flirty, charming and a cocky, chaotic bastard with a love for music and dance. an antihero taking down an evil anti-inhuman organisation with his reckless nature.

strawberry shortcake . . . . . . rishen herrera

the hybrid hero ˖ genderfluid amab ˖ a mantis-moth-spider hybrid and stem genius university student. a nerd with a heart of gold a determination to protect the city. switches between red smart and preppy aesthetic.

mango pudding . . . . . . zhào talisen

the poetic naga reaper ˖ male ˖ a dark academia poet. a grim reaper and naga who is quiet and aloof in nature. a hero in alias and an english literature student with a love for threatre. a beautifully macabre soul with a tongue of poetries.

black forest cake . . . . . . rishima singhania

the head scientist ˖ female ˖ a genius in all fields of science and a woman of stoicism. her cold heart gives way to surprisingly motherly tendancies. monochromatic 1960's aesthetic. the leader of a hero organisation across the multiverse and a renowned sceintist in her city.

affogato . . . . . . vespasiano agresta caliari

the charming vampire lieutenant ˖ male ˖ a vampire dilf - in reality simply a special opps sniper juggling between family and work. a man of charm, telepathy and shadow enthrall. suffering from the wounds of the heart and married to his job. serene, playful and tired to top it all off.

꒰ verse 209 ꒱

croissant . . . . . . jìngyí herrera

the snake monster mad doctor ˖ male ˖ a yandere mad doctor who experiments on non-humans. all prim and proper, ever charming and serene on the outside - but is in fact a calculating and manipulative man. a poet tongue that knows how to deceive and twist the narrative.

red velvet cheesecake . . . . . . rishen herrera

the hybrid mad scientist ˖ genderfluid amab ˖ a yandere ceo of a science and research company. effortless and charismatic. a man of cunning intelligence. classy red aesthetic and an indulgent individual that masks evil ethics and sadistic non-human experiments with deceptive charm.

lemon meringue cheesecake . . . . . . zhào hǎitāo

the demon reaper mercenary ˖ trans male ˖ a cold and calculated member of the resistance against the . a grim reaper with a demon symbiotically bonded to him. intelligent and ruthless. he feeds off vengeance and vows to bring justice to this foresaken world. dark male aesthetic.

꒰ verse 1311 ꒱

egg tarts. . . . . . . jìngyí agresta

the naga mechanist.˖ male ˖ a cunning and ice cold mechanic. a naga and grim reaper who performs as an electric guitarist. deadly silent like a predator with a knack for torturing those that cross him in his workshop. if people see him as a villain for fighting back against discriminating humans then so be it.

vada. . . . . . . . . . . rishen herrera

the femme fatale admiral ˖ genderfluid amab ˖ the leader of a special agent originisation. and assassin and spy. a man of great intelligence and seductive charm. effortless and femme fatale esque with a sharp tongue. a master strategist with a sense of justice. sassy, sarcastic and a natural leader. scary never wore a smile before him.

churros. . . . . . . . . alessio agresta arias

the rockstar rebel leader ˖ male ˖ an arsonist and rebellion leader. a callous man with a sick sense of humour with the destructive power of kinetic energy manipulation. a punk rockstar when he is not causing explosions and stirring fear. flirty, humorous yet ready to do whatever it takes to avenge all fallen inhumans.

ba bao fan . . . . . . . . . zhào hàoyú

the demon casino owner ˖ male ˖ a grim reaper possessed by a demon that feeds on lies. always ready for a good gamble at his casino. villainous yet charismatic. quite the possessive man who enjoys taking sadistic measures. dark male aesthetic with twisted grins and manipulation.

꒰ verse 164 ꒱

key lime pie . . . . . emerald mania ( alessio agresta )

the master of magic ˖ male ˖ the first sorcerer who is considered a corrupt magic god. charming yet sadistic, he takes on the appearance of a demon and dwells in twisted forest. catching poor wanderers and experimenting on their souls. all magic originates from him and he intends to make people remember that. the gods fear his name and the very earth quakes in his presence.

rhubarb and strawberry crumble . . . copper resentment ( zhào talisen )

the snake deity of deceit ˖ male ˖ a siren-like monster that dwells in a large, cursed lake. considered a corrupt god with the power to destroy and reshape universes. a poettic tongue that spills lies and stirs chaos despite his divine and proper appearance. often said to lure beings into the water and challenge the gods. the gods fear his name and the very earth quakes in his presence.

꒰ verse 9948e ꒱

milk tarts . . . . . . alessio agresta arias

the malefic sorcerer ˖ male ˖ a vintage goth sorcerer with a destructive amount of power. dry, sarcastic and chronically tired. a former rockstar who grieves the loss of his lover. now known as a cold-hearted spellcaster on a mission to bring the dead to life.

lemon coconut tart . . . . . . zhào jìngyí

the wandering guarding reaper ˖ male ˖ joyously whimsy, a grim reaper who roams the afterlife after his early passing. always cracking a joke, poet in his own way and soft in nature - yet able to switch instantly on those that underestimate him. he ventures through the realms to aid in missions of the gods. soft aesthetic.

tres leches cake . . . . . . rishen aryielus

the devil in angel's robes˖ genderfluid amab ˖ a charming and attractive angel of pure divinity. raised by the gods with seemingly a heart of gold. but a frightening presence and terror amount of sword skill despite his benevolent appearance. making most believe that he might indeed be a demon.

passionfruit custard tart . . . . . . zhào hàoyŭ

the rebel reaper˖ male ˖ a dramatic and charismatic grim reaper with a knack for art. ever as flirty and adorned in a punk goth aesthetic with vintage twists. ever as flirtatious and sometimes chaotic. the heart of a rebel who fights to change the system of his world and the divine while he's at it. a vexer of the gods.

almon jelly . . . . . . zhao yìzé

the mercenary reaper ˖ male ˖ an aloof grim reaper who delves into mercenary. taking out his anger in weaponry and kills. a caring soul who would rather remain cold as to not wear his heart on his sleeve more than he already has. cyberpunk aesthetic with a rebellious flair.

mango pancakes . . . . . . zhào hǎitāo

the instigator reaper ˖ trans male ˖ an mortician who also delves into the black market as an informant. calm and collected yet ample times cunning. ready to strike down those that deserve. an instigator in nature. soft boy blue aesthetic.

red bean bun . . . . . . yuè mèng yáo

the grim reaper mother ˖ female ˖ a woman of great serenity and traditional in her culture's ways. known for her wisdom and peace - yet also the frightening presence that she brings in her wake. the leader of a grim reaper sanctuary and a mother protective of her kids.

bungeoppang . . . . . . . kyung seong-jin

the diurnal reaper detective ˖ male ˖ a supernatural detective with no filter. a grim reaper who is cold in nature. the heir of a renowned reaper family with a dark male aesthetic. often considered rude - yet dutiful. he has no restraint in his blunt tongue - yet has a warm heart for those he holds dear.

revani . . . . . . . rasui

the fire elemental mercenary leader ˖ male ˖ a mercenary leader who is ever as regal and serene. cold on the exterior and strict in nature. a sometimes domineering fire elemental who tries to remain as callm and collected as possible. proper and formal in aesthetic.

sakura pudding. . . . . . . shimada takara

the killer kitsune ˖ genderfluid ˖ a kitsune masking their nogitsune nature. chaotic and wild with a bite for thrill and danger. constantly seeking a way to keep themselves from boredom. he finds himself in rasui's mercenary syndicate to manage his violent tendencies. a mix of traditional and cyberpunk aesthetic.

꒰ verse 9819 ꒱

caramel cheesecake . . . . . . . . alessio agresta arias

the serial killer magician ˖ male ˖ the effortlessly charming leader of a crime specialist syndicate. a sort of robin hood and outlaw with a dark male aesthetic. serial killer of several politicians. cunning, witty and justice seeking. evading capture and playing games with the government council like the illuionist he is

choc-raspberry pudding cake . . . . . . . . rishen herrera

the mastermind investigator grim reaper ˖ genderfluid ˖ an intelligent and cunning world renowned investigator with a thrill for danger. constantly searching for a possibility of him being wrong. old money aesthetic, brimming with charm and charisma. a confident, witty being trying to ignore his lineage as a grim reaper. he'd much rather solve crimes than reap souls.

strawberry cupcake . . . . . . . . denara agyros

the darling sorceress heir ˖ female ˖ a lunar sorceress and heir to a renowned magic family. gothic in aesthetic and a lover of horror. yet soft and optimistic. a tender soul with a dark side. a kind nurse fighting off her jealous nature. burying into her love for thriller writing.

red velvet cookies . . . . . . . . zhào xīyáng

the grim reaper mercenary boss ˖ male ˖ a collected and deadly quiet mercenary boss grim reaper. frightening with a taste for danger. a mix of oriental and refined white aesthetic. cold in nature and has ever the blunt tongue mixed with dry humour. he shakes hands with the devil to protect his city.

꒰ verse 9948v ꒱

kulfi. . . . . . . . rishen herrera

the mad cultist composer ˖ genderfluid amab ˖ a blank cultist with the ability to manipulate blood itself. a composer who writes with the very crimson he sheds. monotone with a dark sense of humour. cursed to glitch into phantom versions of his doppelgangers across the multiverse. a nercomancer with red esque.

mooncakes. . . . . . . . zhào hàoyŭ

the vengeful phantom ˖ male ˖ a phantom that haunts his world. sadistic and psychotic. careless with the souls he pulls from the afterlife to aid in his brutal massacres. possessive, obsessive and yandere in every way. with a morbid sense of humour and a smile etched on his face at all times.

꒰ verse-less ꒱

berry crumble . . . . . . . . jìngyí verseless

the demon alchemist ˖ male ˖ a demon with a frightful reputation. silent, sadistic and intelligent. best known for his alchemist shop in the dephs of hell. a dark oriental aesthetic with hints of modern. ever as graceful and beautifully macabre. loves to tempt his anger and remind others why he rose through hell's ranks.

kourabiethes . . . . . . . . valerius ariti

the hex demon lord ˖ male ˖ a serene demon lord who casts hexes through the multiverse. indifferent and ever ready to accept a deal so that he might play around with a mortal. regal and strewn in gold. divine to the point some consider him a god. refined and charming despite his brutal nature and vanity.

cherry custard tart . . . . . . . . orion

the abyssal angel general ˖ male ˖ a silent and poetic angel who ranks as a general. known for his watchful eye over the abyss. cold in exterior and a strategic warrior. yet beyond caring with those he holds dear. a wise soul who can be a bit of a trickster at times.

#﹙ the menu. ﹚: characters 𖹭 ݁#monster boyfriend #teratophillia #monster fucker #terato #monster girl #x reader #reader insert #male reader #female reader #gn reader #oc x reader #original character x reader #asterism

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sleepyjuniper · 10 months ago

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OHHHHHHHH

During "Stayed Gone", after Vox bluescreens and Alastor starts his last verse, that's not Alastor just being insanely powerful that his broadcast can keep going while the city's power is out, that's because RADIO signals aren't lost when the electricity is out. Radio waves don't run on electricity 💀

That's the show displaying to us that Alastor's medium is actually more reliable than Vox's. That's sick as hell actually

#hazbin hotel #alastor #vox #hazbin vox #hazbin hotel vox #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel alastor

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bharv · 2 months ago

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Happy Gortoween everybody. Thanks @gortash-week for all the food!

Sweet Thing

Modern AU verse Durgetash. Prompts: Costume party, sweet delights, the devil you know. CW implied feederism and coercion.

(This is basically fluff for me.)

“Come on. We’re going out.”

He’s drunk, because of course he is, though he’s not sweating enough yet to have moved onto anything harder. Manva moves to shut the door, but he catches it and moves past her before she has a chance.

“I’m not going anywhere. It’s late.”

“It’s bloody nine-thirty! What is it with your generation. You’re tucking yourself in with your teddies by nightfall.”

“I have a class at six tomorrow.”

“Christ. I didn’t think students got up for anything before ten.”

“A Pilates class, not a class-class.”

She’s already exhausted by his presence. Decked out head-to-toe in black, his hair pushed back and the only hint of colour an ugly pair of red-tipped boots that must have been some designer’s idea of a joke, he strides through the grey of the studio apartment like a fly across a fruit bowl.

“Come on,” he says again as he opens up the fridge and takes out one of her sparkling waters. “Get something black and slinky on and let’s pop out. I’ll have you back by midnight, promise.”

He walks back to her, slipping a hand over her waist, his thumb pushing past the fabric of her vest. There is a smile playing at the edge of his lips, and she knows why. He has already won, and they both know it.

He calls a cab and takes them into old soho, the backstreets of the city that heroically resist the lure of gentrification. They stop down an alley with one illuminated door with missing letters, and she follows him down a narrow staircase that leads to a tatty looking retro diner. There is a DJ feebly playing generic fifties music, and they are led by a lone waiter to the far corner of a tacky, tattered old red Formica booth. She had worried that she was underdressed; the only black clothes she had in her wardrobe was a two piece Lycra workout set, but as she shrugs off her coat she only thinks of how the plastic seats will stick to her arms.

“This can’t be what you’re all dressed up for,” she says as she fingers a sticky menu on the table.

“I’m going on,” he explains as he pulls out a cigarette. “Lady Jannath’s Costume Masquerade.”

She recalls seeing the photos when she was younger in Orin’s copies of Tatler. Wisteria Jannath and her daughters in couture garments that would have been just as welcome at the met ball.

“And where is your costume then?”

“Ah yes,” he replies, and pulls out a cheap pair of plastic horns from his inside pocket that he places on his head with a flourish.

She hates that it makes her laugh. “Hardly up to the dress code, is it?”

“Dress code is for people coming through the front to be papped,” he explains, lighting his cigarette and taking a long, measured pull. “I’m there for the real party. Oh, I almost forgot…”

He pulls out a tiny witches hat from the jacket, a delicate little hair clip that he reaches across to place on her head.

She flinches. “I don’t do Halloween.”

He scowls, pulling his cigarette from his mouth and flicking ash across the table. “Why not? Lighten up a little.”

“It’s not… for me. I don’t want to.”

“Come on. Don’t be such a little-”

“You can’t smoke indoors, Mr Gortash.”

A heavy, masculine, and above all exhausted voice pulls her out of their little bubble. She feels embarrassed as she looks up at the poor waiter, who is surely only doing his job and is sick of late-night nonsense like-

“Quite so,” Enver replies with a smile, and takes another quick puff before pulling out his wallet. “Bring me an Old Fashioned, two Ring-a-ding-ding burgers, and a milkshake. Chocolate, dear? Strawberry?”

He doesn’t even look at her as he pulls out a wedge of cash and folds it for the waiter. It must be at least three hundred.

“I don’t want anything,” she tells him.

He smiles at the waiter and puts the money in his hand before leaning back.

“Chocolate, I think. With all the toppings. Bring it over with the whiskey bottle and then leave us be, there’s a good chap.”

The food arrives and it is fine, nothing remarkable, with generous portions of fries and beef-bacon instead of pork. She looks around the room as Enver talks about his day, something about international markets that is impossible to follow as he tops up his glass, and notices that the room is full of suited men with women. Some look younger, others perhaps hired. All of them tucked away, just like she is, in dimly-lit booths.

“Why did we come here?” she asks him as she dips one of her fries in the melting ice cream. “We could have stayed at mine.”

“Maybe I wanted to treat you.”

“But not enough to take me to the party.”

“Would you have wanted to go?”

She considers it, just for a moment. The crowded space, the photographs. The feeling of hanging on his arm. “…No.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“But why here?”

“It’s an old favourite. Now come on. You’ve barely touched your food.”

She looks down at the half-eaten burger and seemingly endless chips. She already knows how heavy her body will feel tomorrow on the reformer, how it will sit on her chest.

“I’m done.”

“Truly?” He moves closer to her, and runs his hand over her stomach openly as he leans into her neck. The feeling of shame lurches in her as she tries to pull away, but there is nowhere to go as she traps his hand in hers. “You don’t feel full at all,” he murmurs against her neck. “And there’s not much to hide behind, is there?”

“Enver-“

“Fine. If you’re sure.”

The hand on her stomach slips from her grasp, chasing up her skin as he leans in to kiss her. The kiss is hard, forceful, and she almost chokes on it as she pulls away.

“I want to go home,” she tells him, her hand reaching to try to find her coat as he laughs at her.

“Then go! Do you want to go back to the home that I pay for, the one I furnished and supply for you with only the ask of your company in return, or would you prefer to go back to your real home?”

He leans in and kisses her again, and she can feel her head swirl as if he has drugged her. She knows he has not, would not.

It wouldn’t be so fun for him if he had.

He pulls away, holding her by the back of her neck. “A girl your age should be out at a party, getting felt up in the corner by some quivering boy for a quick fumble in the dark,” he tells her. “Chasing little memories, gathering little discretions for the diary. But you’re not there. And you’re not at home. You’re here, with me, and you’re here because you like it. You like what I am.”

She breathes in the scent of him, takes in the feeling of his thumb moving down her collarbone and his other hand reaching down her thigh as everything dissolves but him. Smoke and ash, the silly plastic devil horns an unnecessary addition.

Perhaps it is better to stick with the devil you knew, after all.

#gortoween #enver gortash #durgetash #cw feederism #to be safe #I wrote this in an hour on my phone so. apologies #but I joined in!#this was NOT what I was planning to write this is NOT what I have to finish today

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demigodsanswer · 20 days ago

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Percabeth sick/injured fic x secret relationship

Set in the secret relationship/Roman!Percy Verse

They are about 25, engaged, and public rivals, privately engaged and very in love.

With his mother and fiance on the other side of the country, Percy decided he needed to finally invest in a phone. Valdez had figured out how to dim the monster-attracting qualities of cellphones, and of course he was safe in New Rome, but he always seemed to attract more monsters than the average demigod.

He had "mom" save in his phone twice -- one with a blue heart one with a red heart. Blue heart was actually Sally. The red heart was Annabeth. It was an easy way to make sure no one accidentally spotted her name on his phone, even if Annabeth did tease him about the oedipal implications.

A senate hearing was not when he wanted to see "Mom ❤️" flash across his phone screen. Annabeth rarely called him unscheduled. But she was twenty-seven weeks pregnant now. Things couldn't always be scheduled.

"I need to take this," Percy whispered to Reyna, one of his allies in this whole clandestine relationship. She'd met Annabeth first, actually, when Hera decided to swap her and Percy. Percy got a fun few months of camp fire songs and marshmallows. Annabeth ... well, the Roman's were a little more intense.

"Praetor Jackson, certainly there's nothing more important that the investigation into these assassination attempts," Octavian yelled through the room as Percy stood.

"There is, actually," was all Percy said before leaving.

The on-going attacks on high ranking Romans had really thrown off the last few months of Percy and Annabeth's life. They were engaged, expecting a baby, and ready to finally end the rivalry between camps. But these attempts had stalled all of those plans.

Only members of the seven had been spared at all. Reyna had been attacked recently, although she escaped with her life. Greek weapons had been found at several scenes. Percy -- well, Annabeth really -- maintained it was some kind of frame job. What did the Greek get out of assassinating random Romans? But weeks in, two dead, several injured, they were no closer to figuring it out.

The whole ordeal kept Percy trapped in his Praetor position and far away from the woman he loved.

So if Octavian wanted to say something, he could. Percy was hoping for an excuse to be kicked out of his position anyway.

He answered the phone call after running down the hall, far as he could get from the senate doors.

"Hey, I'm in the senate building I just stepped out," were his opening words, so she knew that if he didn't react, it was all for the sake of his public appearance.

"Percy, something feels weird," Annabeth said.

He'd climbed through and out of hell with her, and even then she'd never really sounded afraid.

Annabeth sounded afraid now.

Percy did his best not to match her tone.

"Everything is going to be okay," he promised. "Does it seem like a demigod thing or human thing?"

"It feels like ... cramps. Maybe contractions? Human I guess, but ..."

Not good.

"Are you still at home?" He asked. They shared a new two-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn that he'd barely gotten to spend anytime in because of the band of rogue assassins terrorizing his city. But still, it felt more like home than New Rome did these days.

"Yeah," she said.

"When my mom was pregnant with Estelle, she had all sorts of weird feelings and pains, so it's probably okay, okay?"

"Okay."

"But we're gonna go to the hospital just be safe, okay?"

"We?"

"I'll get on Mrs. O'Leary. I'll be there in five minutes," Percy said.

"The Senate --"

"Fuck the Senate," Percy said. "You're much more important."

He could almost hear her smiling, just for a moment. "Okay, I love you," she said.

"I love you too," he promised. "If I'm not there in five minutes, don't wait for me. I'll find you."

"I know," she said. They hung up. The moment her voice was gone from the other side, he took a deep, panicked breath and rested his head against the cold tile wall in front of him. It'll be okay, he promised himself. A demigod healer, his cousin's partner, worked at their hospital. He mostly did mortal ER stuff these days, but if it was demigod-related, or something he could treat with Apollo magic, he'd be there.

The seven, Nico, Reyna, Grover, and now Will. That was their network of demigods who knew why Percy kept sneaking away from Rome, and who knew how assumed-virgin Annabeth Chase had gotten pregnant (she hadn't been a virgin since she was seventeen, but that was no one else's business).

Percy walked back in to the senate hearing, but didn't sit back down. He gathered what little he had with him and whispered to Reyna: "My mother is in the hospital."

She looked at him, worried. Reyna casually rested her hand on her abdomen, as if to ask: Annabeth? Percy nodded. "Is she okay?"

"I don't know. I'm going to New York. I'll be gone for a few days," he said.

Reyna waved him off. He'd been so distracted for the last twenty-odd weeks (longer really, several years at this point), that he was mostly dead weight to her anyway.

"Go, I can handle this," she said.

"I'm still talking!" Octavian reminded them. "Praetor Jackson, some might consider it treason if you leave now--"

Percy set off the sprinklers. "The meeting is over."

Mrs. O'Leary got him to Brooklyn in a matter of seconds. Between her and Blackjack, the long-distance periods of his and Annabeth's relationship were surprisingly manageable.

"Percy!" Annabeth said the moment he appeared in their living room.

"Hey," he said, pulling her into a hug. "How are you feeling?" He asked.

She just shook her head. "Lets go." Percy grabbed her bag for her. She'd shoved a pair of pajamas and extra pair on undies in her purse, he noticed, as well as whatever she was currently stress-knitting.

Their Uber arrived quickly. In the car, Annabeth took off her necklace -- a long chain that held her engagement ring, so she could hide it under most clothes. Now, she slipped it off the chain and onto her hand.

In the end, it wasn't a big deal.

"It's just braxton hicks contractions," the OB assured them.

"Are you sure?" Annabeth asked. "I thought most women don't feel those."

"They can be felt," the doctor corrected. "They don't cause dilation, but your body is starting to get ready." The doctor handed Annabeth a pamphlet, and Annabeth glared at her, always annoyed when people thought they were smarter than her. Even when, in this case, they were. "If they start to feel more intense, or you start bleeding, come back right away. But you two did the right thing coming in," she promised. "You'll be wonderful parents."

Percy kissed Annabeth's hand as the doctor left them alone in the room.

"I feel stupid," Annabeth said, covering her face. "I made you come all this way for nothing."

"I'd much rather be here with you," Percy said. "And it wasn't nothing. You heard the doctor, coming in was the right thing to do."

Annabeth sat up and untied the hospital gown to get redressed.

"When do you need to head back?" She asked, stepping into her maternity jeans.

Percy was quiet for a moment as he made up his mind.

"I'm not going back, Annabeth," he said.

"What? Percy, you can't --"

"I can," he insisted. "I'm tired of being away from you, missing out on things, not being there when you have weird feelings. I --" she rested a hand on his face. "I love you. Fuck New Rome, they'll be fine without me."

Annabeth kissed him.

"How are you going to tell them?" She asked.

Percy hadn't thought that far.

"I don't know," he admitted. "But when you give birth to a baby with big green eyes and water powers, people might figure it out."

Annabeth smiled. "We don't know that she's going to take after you."

"Nope, first kid always looks like the dad. That's what my mom says," Percy told her.

"That's not science," Annabeth protested.

"Neither is a surfer bro pulling the sun across the sky in a sports car," Percy said. "We live in a strange and wonderful world." Percy rested a hand on her bump.

Annabeth kissed him again. "Let's go home, Perc, I want to take a bath."

Reyna IM'd him later. "How are Plato and Aristotle?" She asked, her nick names for Annabeth and the baby.

Nearly ten years ago, Annabeth had arrived at New Rome carrying Juno with no memories of who she was. But she'd become quick friends with Reyna nonetheless, and Praetor in record time. In a short time, she ran New Rome far better than Percy ever could.

Percy wished that had translated into long-term peace between camps, but no, some Brutus had to go and start assassinating people.

"Everything is okay," Percy said. "We're home, resting, stress crocheting ... is that a baby sweater?" Percy asked. It didn't have much form yet.

Annabeth was just slightly outside the perimeter of the rainbow, her head in Percy's lap, her belly towards the ceiling. Annabeth held the work in progress up for Reyna to see.

"Looks cute," Reyna said. "When should I expect you back?"

He could see it in her face and hear it in her tone. She knew what Percy was going to say.

"I'm not coming back. Not in the long term. I'll find some way of stepping down. And we need to find a way to break our news. We can't keep this secret forever," Percy said.

"I understand," Reyna promised him.

"Give Frank or Hazel my job," Percy said. "They're ready and way more qualified than I am."

"You're perfectly qualified," both women said at the same time. Percy laughed.

"Thanks," he said. "But I'm bound to get impeached the moment they find out I'm engaged to the Greek's Philosopher King."

"Not my title," Annabeth said, a frequent refrain of hers.

"And what does Plato expect to happen once you two walk out of the cave?" Reyna asked.

"We are really stretching this philosophy metaphor," Annabeth said. "There might be another Peloponnesian war," Annabeth said with an alarming casualness, "or maybe the power of love will win the day, and everything will be fine. That's what Piper has her money on."

Reyna flushed a bit at the mention of Piper's name. "How is the daughter of Aphrodite?" She asked.

"Single," Annabeth said. "You know, you could do Percy and I a huge favor and go public with a cross-camp romance first," Annabeth suggested.

"I already got you a baby shower gift," Reyna reminded them. "I'll let you get some rest," she said, "and start figuring out how to navigate this transition."

"Sorry for only making your life harder," Percy said.

"Annabeth, if you ever want to trade sides again --" Reyna started, before Percy wiped away the message.

#percabeth #percy jackson #annabeth chase #reyna avila ramirez arellano

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