poeticallyspiteful

[poeticallyspiteful]

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Saints, Sinners, and Sleepwalkers | Kit Walker x Reader

Series Masterlist Here

8.3k words

Expect Disturbing Themes

Chapter 1: Curiosity is the First Cut

📄 Briarcliff Records (October, 1961 – Last Updated March, 1962)

Patient Name: [REDACTED] Alias: “Lady Reverie” Date of Admission: October 13th, 1961 Age: Estimated mid-to-late 20s

Recent Addendum – March 2nd, 1962

Staff Observations: Patient demonstrates increased periods of lucidity during waking hours. Fugue states have decreased in frequency, though still present. Shows consistent protective behavior toward fellow patient “Pepper.” Frequently observed intervening when Pepper is distressed or targeted by others. Speech still fragmented. Instances of poetic or metaphorical language remain, but content appears more focused.  Nighttime episodes remain.

Religious Staff Note: Unnatural contortions and trance-like movements continue to be interpreted as signs of possible spiritual unrest. The Chaplain’s previous request for private prayer sessions has been approved by administration and is currently awaiting formal scheduling. Staff advised to document any further episodes of religious speech or behavior. – Schedule with Father Howard by end of month?

Attending Staff: Dr. Arthur Arden Dr. Thredson: Pending evaluation

The air in Sister Jude’s office always smelled faintly of smoke and floor polish. Clinical, but not quite clean. Dr. Oliver Thredson folded his hands neatly in his lap as she spoke, nodding with a tight-lipped expression that suggested agreement, though his mind was already two thoughts ahead.

“She’s not violent,” Jude was saying, thumbing through a thin, dog-eared file. “Not like some of the others. But she’s off. Unsettling.”

“Off?” Thredson echoed politely, already glancing toward the open folder.

“Former sideshow performer. Calls herself Lady Reverie—or did, once. Now she mostly doesn’t talk. Spends most of her time sleepwalking through the halls or twisting herself into a knot under her cot.”

Jude slid the folder toward him.

“She speaks in verse sometimes,” Jude added dryly, lighting a cigarette. “When she speaks at all.”

Thredson scanned the top sheet. Hysteria. Catatonia. Fugue states. A tangle of diagnoses from facilities that probably hadn’t known what to do with her, so they’d passed her along like a cursed relic.

“And yet,” he murmured, mostly to himself, “she still moves.”

He tapped a finger against a line about her nightly contortions. A kind of sleep-dancing. Bodies remembered what the mind forgot. He’d read about cases like this in med school. But none had the strange poetry that trailed behind this one like a ghost.

“She doesn’t cause trouble,” Jude said again, but with that pinched tone she used for anything that bothered her even if it didn’t break the rules. “But she’s magnetic. You’ll see. Other patients are drawn to her like sheep to a wolf with lipstick. That’s the problem.”

Thredson smiled faintly. “Or perhaps… like sheep to a shepherd.”

Jude’s eyes narrowed, cigarette paused just before her lips. “You planning to take a particular interest in her?”

“I plan to observe,” he said smoothly. “That’s all. She’s an intriguing case. And since she’s begun interacting more frequently with the Pinhead girl—”

“Pepper,” Jude corrected, grimacing.

“—Yes. Pepper. Since then, her file notes fewer fugue episodes. That shift alone is worth understanding.”

Jude took a long drag from her cigarette, exhaled toward the window.

“Do what you want,” she muttered. “But don’t come crying to me when she starts climbing the walls and speaking in tongues. Arden says she’s half demon already.”

“Then perhaps it’s time someone asked which half.”

He stood and collected the folder, careful not to show how eager he really was. His fingers itched to open it again. To dissect each phrase. The mind was a map, and she was already presenting the most intriguing detour Briarcliff had offered yet.

Down the hall, the metal doors to Occupational Therapy clicked open.

He would only observe. Quietly. Briefly. Harmlessly.

For now.

They’d put you and Pepper at the same table again. Not out of kindness—just rotation. A shuffle of patients to avoid patterns, they said. But for once, it worked in your favor.

She greeted you with a squeal and a flurry of excited hand-flapping, nearly knocking over the tray of beads the orderly dumped between you. You caught the tray before it spilled, and she beamed like you’d just pulled a rabbit from a hat.

“Twiiirly,” she whispered in sing-song, dragging out the word like it was a secret spell.

You said nothing. Just smiled—small, careful—and nudged a pink bead her way. She gasped, delighted.

It was quiet enough, at first. Just the clink of beads and buttons. The soft rustle of fabric and the faint wheeze of the radiators pushing against another cold morning.

You let yourself watch her. Counted the rhythm of her fingers sorting colors. Matched your breathing to her little hums. She made it easier to be here. She made you easier to be here.

Then something shifted. The sound of shoes—too crisp. Too new. Someone watching.

You didn’t look up right away, but the hairs on your arms prickled. Staff changed often. You didn’t recognize this one.

A clipboard scratched against a sleeve. A murmur between two men. The rustle of papers. You felt it—not like threat, exactly. But like someone testing the weight of a door they might one day unlock.

You moved closer to Pepper. Just a fraction. Her knee bumped yours, and she looked at you with wide, steady trust.

You turned back to the beads. Threaded one. Then another.

Still here. Still with her.

The clink of beads slowed. Across the room, a nurse glanced at her clipboard, then began calling names—one by one, slowly peeling people away like petals off a dying flower.

“Time’s up,” she said flatly. “Sort yourselves out.”

Pepper frowned at her half-finished bracelet, lip wobbling just enough to tug something deep in your chest. You reached over and touched the back of her hand.

“Hey,” you murmured, soft but certain. “We’ll finish it later. I promise.”

Her eyes lifted to yours. You watched her search your face, looking for cracks. You gave her your best smile—even if it didn’t feel like it belonged to you. It worked. She nodded, the way children do when they decide to believe in something.

“No forgetting!”

“I won’t,” you said. “I’m still here, remember?”

She giggled like it was a joke. To her, maybe it was. But around her, you were more awake than you’d ever been since the show disbanded.

You hate it. But you care for her more.

You stood from your chair, offering Pepper one last smile, just as an orderly entered the room. He called your name. You followed without a word, leaving the faint scent of glue and yarn behind. The halls stretched longer than usual, walls tilting ever so slightly inward. Fluorescent lights flickered like they were trying to blink something away.

You didn’t ask where you were going. You never did.

The hydrotherapy room was colder today.

Not by degrees—by feeling. Like the air itself didn’t want you there.

The tub loomed where it always did: claw-footed, rust-kissed, bolted to cracked tiles like an altar made for silence. The water was already waiting—cloudy, off-color. You didn’t want to know what was in it.

The orderly didn’t speak. Just walked you to the tub and began unfastening your gown. The buttons came undone one by one, each tiny pop echoing off the tile like distant thunder. You stared at the grout between floor tiles and tried to stay inside your body.

It didn’t work.

When you stepped out of the gown, you didn’t feel the chill. Your skin did, but you were watching from somewhere behind your own eyes.

Lowered into the tub, your limbs folded like paper. Your back met the basin and the cold climbed in. Restraints clicked shut at your wrists and ankles.

You didn’t fight. You never did.

The water lapped gently at your collarbones. You stared at the ceiling.

Dirt.

Your fingers were in the dirt, kneeling under a sky you couldn’t see. Someone was behind you. Close, but not touching.

"You're always doing that,” a voice said. Soft, amused. Jimmy.

You didn’t turn to look at him. You didn’t need to. You could feel the warmth of him at your back. His presence curled around your shoulders like an old coat.

“Does it mean something?” he asked, crouching beside you.

You shrugged.

“I like it,” he added after a moment. “The circles. Looks like you're making little worlds.”

You traced another loop, slower this time. His hand rested lightly against your spine—warm, grounding. You hadn’t realized how cold you were.

“Maybe I am,” you murmured. You liked the idea of that. Building something. Even if you couldn’t stay in it.

Then the water shifted. Real again. Heavy.

Jimmy was gone.

You were trembling. Bound. Alone.

Your fingers wouldn’t stop twitching.

The restraints came off slower than they went on. The water lapped around your ribs as the orderly muttered something you didn’t hear. You stepped out of the tub, dripping, the floor cold against your feet. He handed you a threadbare towel that didn’t quite reach your knees.

You dried off on instinct. One hand. Then the other. The order in it made your body feel real again.

Your gown was returned to you, slightly damp at the collar. They never waited for you to be fully dry. By the time you were dressed, the chill had settled in your bones.

No words were exchanged. Just a nod. A hand on your back.

The hallway stretched out like something hollowed. You walked it anyway. You always did. Flickering lights. White tile. Turn left, then right.

They didn’t send you back to your room.

“Common room,” the orderly said, jerking his chin toward the double doors.

You didn’t respond. Just walked through them.

The common room was already half-filled. Two patients were locked in a quiet argument by the window. A woman in a fraying nightgown tore pages from a magazine, stacking them neatly on the floor. The same old music playing on repeat.

You looked for Pepper. But you knew she wasn’t here.

You made your way to your usual chair—near the old bookshelf where the encyclopedias were out of order. You sat.

Folded your hands in your lap. Breathed in. Out.

Still damp. Still here.

The low drone of voices filled the room like fog. You let it settle over you. Let it blur the edges just a little—but not too far. Not now. Not yet.

You stared at the rip in your sleeve and counted the stitches until they stopped meaning numbers.

Then switched to counting the flickers of the light above you. Two. Pause. One. Long pause. Then three. You weren’t sure if it had always done that or if you just noticed today.

Then—

Bang.

The hallway door slammed open, loud and fast like it was kicked. You flinched.

A voice—male, raw with panic—echoed in the corridor. “Get your hands off me! I didn’t do anything!”

Footsteps. Two, maybe three sets. Struggling. A thud against the wall. Metal clattered. Someone swore.

You didn’t move. Not really. Just turned your head slightly, like it was someone else’s.

“Another one,” a nurse murmured at the desk.

“Not just anyone,” someone else answered, voice low and tight. “He’s one of them. From the Bloody Face case.”

“No kidding. Thought he’d get the chair.”

“Should’ve. But not yet.”

Their voices drifted off into the rhythm of the day.

The footsteps faded. So did the struggle. A moment later, the common room returned to its usual static rhythm. Cups stacked. Pieces moved. The TV buzzed on.

But something in your chest had changed. Like a key had turned inside you.

Not enough to unlock anything.

But just enough to click.

You looked toward the hallway, where the noise had come from. Nothing there now. Just the closed door.

You didn’t know why it stuck with you.

But it did.

The voices had stopped. The hallway was quiet again. But your thoughts moved differently now—like something had shifted them off their usual tracks. You couldn't name the feeling, exactly. Not fear. Not curiosity. Just… a pressure. A presence. Like someone had walked across your grave and kept going.

Your eyes conveyed your sudden restlessness more than any other part of you. They flitted around the room, as if trying to figure out why your heart was beating a little harder.

Eventually, the bell rang.

Not a real bell—just the old, wheezing chime they used when it was time to shuffle patients from one part of the ward to the next. You’d learned its pitch months ago. Lunch.

Everyone stood in slow ripples. Chairs scraped. Slippers scuffed tile. The usual drift toward the door began.

You stood last.

Not out of rebellion. Just habit.

It gave you time to brush a hand over the carved eye on your chair’s armrest, a ritual you hadn’t bothered to question in weeks. Or maybe months. You weren’t sure.

The hallway was brighter now, though it still hummed too loud. You filed in with the others, trailing just behind a woman who whispered prayers under her breath. You didn’t listen to the words—just the cadence.

Orderlies and nurses led and followed you all to the lunchroom.

Lunch meant noise. Trays. Smells. A hundred kinds of presence pressing down on you at once.

You didn’t mind the blandness of the food anymore. You didn’t taste it, anyway.

Lunch was already halfway served. You sat where you always did—second row from the wall, three seats down from the cart with the chipped plastic utensils.

You didn’t look up when the nurse came by. You didn’t have to. Your tray was always placed in front of you, always the same way—lukewarm, grayish food and a paper cup of water that tasted like rust.

But today—

A pause.

A tray dropped beside yours.

“You’re sitting here,” came the nurse’s voice, brisk, not unkind. Then the tap of her shoes retreating. You felt it before you saw it. The change. A new weight beside you, unfamiliar and too alive.

You looked up.

And there he was.

Someone new.

You didn’t remember most here, but you were sure you’d recognize him.

Messy hair, a scrape darkening on his cheekbone, hands clenched too tight around the edges of his tray like he might bolt or throw it. His eyes met yours.

He didn’t look away.

Neither did you.

Something cracked—just a hairline fracture in the surface of your stillness. Not recognition. Not quite. But a pull.

He opened his mouth, maybe to say something, maybe not.

Nothing came out.

You blinked.

He sat down.

The room carried on around you. Chatter, trays scraping, the clink of plastic forks.

But at your little corner of the table, time hung different.

Something had arrived.

The two of you ate in silence.

You peeled your bread roll slowly, piece by piece, pressing crumbs into your palm without noticing. The man barely touched his food. His spoon clinked once against the bowl of something that used to be soup, then stilled.

He kept glancing your way—quick, uncertain flicks of the eyes, like he wasn’t sure if you were real or just another one of this place’s ghosts.

You didn’t meet his gaze. But you didn’t turn away, either.

A long moment passed.

Then, softly—like he was testing the weight of his own voice—he said, “Is it always so… quiet in here?”

His words surprised you. Not what he said, but that he said anything at all. Like no one had told him you weren’t… you. Maybe he didn’t care. That would change.

You looked up again.

His eyes were tired. But kind.

He waited.

You blinked.

It had been a long time since anyone asked you a question like they expected you to answer. Like you were still someone who did that sort of thing. Did you know how?

Your lips parted. Then closed again. You looked at your tray—at the pale mush congealing at the edges, at your own trembling fingers.

“…Usually,” you said, voice small and grainy, like a sound unused to daylight.

He nodded, like you’d said something important. Like you’d given more than just a word.

He nodded a little, like her answer confirmed something for him.

Then, after a moment spent fiddling with his spoon, he said, “I’m Kit.” Not loud. Not proud. Just simple. Honest. Like maybe he wasn’t sure it would matter.

Your eyes flicked to him again, slower this time.

“…Hi.”

That was all. Just that one syllable. But you met his gaze when you said it.

And it was enough.

He smiled, just barely.

You looked away first.

Not out of shyness—but something closer to habit. The quiet had become armor. And this new voice, this boy with soft eyes and scuffed knuckles, had cracked it just by looking at you like you were still there.

You risked a glance across the room.

Pepper sat hunched over her tray, but her eyes were on you. Not on the food. Not on the noise behind her. On you.

She smiled. Big and goofy and proud—like she’d known this would happen. Like maybe she’d waited for it.

Kit followed your gaze.

“She your friend?” he asked gently.

You gave the tiniest nod.

He smiled. “You always this quiet?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

The truth sat somewhere between the past and whatever you were now. You’d always been quiet, yes. But not like this. Not the kind of quiet that made your voice strange in your own throat. Not the kind that made people forget you were there.

“…I wasn’t,” you said finally.

And that was true enough for now.

Kit didn’t press. Just nodded, like he understood something unsaid.

The rest of lunch passed in soft sounds—metal against trays, the occasional mutter or clatter. You picked at your food, not out of hunger but habit. He did the same, though he seemed more focused on you than the plate in front of him.

You didn’t speak again.

But you didn’t leave the table either.

For now, that felt like something.

The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. It wasn’t heavy. If anything, it felt… okay..

You took another bite of whatever passed for lunch. Warm, beige, unmemorable. He did the same. The clatter and clink of trays filled the space around you, but in your corner, the world felt muffled.

Then—

A hand closed around your upper arm. Not hard, not cruel—but firm. Familiar.

An orderly. Already turning you away from the table before he spoke.

“Time to go.”

No name. No explanation. No need.

You didn’t resist. You never did.

The spoon slipped from your hand with a quiet clink against plastic as you rose, letting yourself be steered out of the cafeteria.

You didn’t look back.

But you could feel them.

Pepper’s worry. Kit’s confusion.

Their eyes followed you out the lunchroom.

The hallway to Arden’s lab always felt colder than the others. Colder than hydrotherapy, even. Not the biting cold of water—but dry, bone-humming cold, like the air didn’t want to be breathed.

The orderly said nothing as he guided you through the narrow corridor. You knew the path by heart: left at the supply closet, past the small window covered in wire mesh, take a right, down two more doors and—

There.

The one with no label. Just a thin slit of light beneath it.

The orderly knocked once, didn’t wait for an answer, and opened the door.

Inside, it smelled of iron and rubbing alcohol. Too clean, in a way that made your stomach twist. Nothing ever smelled like that unless something wrong had happened—and been wiped away.

Dr. Arden stood at the far end of the room, already in his coat, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows. He didn’t look up right away. He never did.

“Leave her,” he said.

The orderly let go of your arm. The door clicked shut behind you.

You stood there. Still.

Arden glanced at you finally. His eyes were pale, washed out, like something left too long in the sun. He wrote something on a clipboard without speaking, then motioned toward the exam chair in the center of the room.

You walked.

The exam chair was hard. Cold. Designed more for compliance than comfort. The light above you buzzed faintly, flickering at the edges. Arden circled behind you, and for a moment, the only sound was the rustle of paper and the metallic squeak of his instruments.

He began his routine.

Blood pressure. Pupil dilation. Reflexes. Cold metal pressing against your skin.

His hands were always precise. Too careful. He touched you like you were a machine—one he didn’t trust, but was obsessed with keeping in working order. You learned not to flinch.

“You’ve been more alert lately,” he said, voice neutral. “More present.”

He tapped the edge of your knee. Your leg twitched.

“And yet, the dissociative episodes continue.”

He didn’t ask. He never asked. Just wrote.

Something clinked into a tray behind you.

“How fortunate,” he murmured. “To study such phenomena in real time.”

He adjusted the angle of your head.

“And your flexibility—still intact, I assume?”

You said nothing.

He smiled—just barely. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“You’ll show me, of course.”

He said it like fact.

Like order.

The silence stretched thin and sharp between you, vibrating like wire.

You didn’t blink. Still here.

But shrinking, inside yourself.

Like a knot pulled tighter, tighter, tighter.

Arden turned away again, scribbling. Something about the way he moved made you feel smaller. Dissected.

He hadn’t touched you improperly. Not today. Not yet. But he looked at you like he was waiting for permission. Or for the rules to change.

They always changed here.

Eventually.

Arden set his clipboard aside. “Stand.”

You obey.

With clinical slowness, he stepped behind you once more. You heard the snap of gloves. The slide of a drawer.

Then the rustle of fabric.

Your gown.

His fingers were at the back, unfastening the buttons one by one. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just methodical.

“You’ll be cooperative,” he said quietly. Not a threat. Not a request. Just… truth, as he saw it.

The gown slipped from your shoulders. Cold air touched your spine like ice. You had never been more grateful for the cotton underwear given to you by the asylum.

“You’ve done this before,” he added. “Hundreds of times, if I had to guess.”

He guided your arm upward, not roughly, but firmly—stretching it behind your head, elbow bent at a sharp angle.

“Hold.”

You did.

His hand adjusted your wrist with the kind of care one might use for taxidermy. Fingers precisely positioned. Palm facing the ceiling. He circled you, pausing to examine the lines your body made.

Click.

A camera. Somewhere behind you. No flash. Just the heavy mechanical sound of the shutter.

He didn’t tell you he was going to take a picture.

He didn’t tell you anything.

“You’ve trained your body to obey,” he said absently, scribbling something down. “Even when your mind… detaches.”

He tilted your chin next. Pulled the opposite arm forward. Bent it across your stomach in a shape you recognized from your old acts. One of the more graceful ones.

You held the position. Not for him. For survival.

Click.

You stared at the ceiling. Counted the cracks. The stains in the paint. Pretended your body was only light and muscle. A shadow someone else was wearing.

“Backbend,” he said simply.

You hesitated—only a fraction.

A mistake.

His fingers wrapped your bicep. Not cruel, but possessive. Steady.

“You’re not here to perform,” he said, his voice dipping. “You’re here to be studied. And I expect consistency.”

Your breath caught as you shifted. Let yourself fold backward. Spine curved. Chest stretched open.

Vulnerable.

Click.

Click.

You stared upside-down at the far wall, heart climbing your throat.

Arden moved closer.

You felt the shape of his gaze—how it narrowed, intensified. How it settled at your sternum like a weight.

“Fascinating,” he muttered. “Even now… the body remembers.”

A touch—flat, clinical, palm to your ribs. He counted your breaths. Said nothing as you trembled.

Still here. Still here. Still here.

But the knot inside you pulled tighter.

And his hand didn’t move.

Arden’s hand trailed lower.

Not hurried. Not hesitant.

From your ribs, down the line of your waist, across your hip. Gloved fingers pressing into the muscle—not groping, but measuring. As if your body were an anatomical model he’d memorized long ago and was now checking for inconsistencies.

He stopped at your thigh.

“Too tense,” he muttered.

His hand adjusted your leg—lifted and rotated it outward, forcing your pelvis to tilt with the movement. Then the other. Folding you inward now, one knee drawn up, one stretched behind, your spine curving into a twist.

A contortionist’s pose.

One you hadn’t used in years.

Click.

The sound made you flinch.

He didn’t notice. Or he didn’t care.

“Muscle memory is remarkable,” he said, more to himself than to you. “It outlasts the mind. Outlasts trauma. Even obedience can be learned in the tissue.”

He stepped back again, examining you like a specimen pinned beneath glass. Something in his expression flickered—not quite desire. Not admiration. Something colder. Sharper.

Something hungry.

“You’ve always made yourself small,” he murmured. “Even now. Tucked into yourself like a prayer.”

He crouched beside you, adjusting the angle of your wrist again. His face too close. His breath smelled like old metal and antiseptic.

“Tell me,” he said softly, as he reached to place your chin just so. “Do you even remember why you do this?”

Click.

The silence after the shutter was deafening.

The final click echoed through the room.

And then—nothing.

Just the hum of the overhead light. The shallow rasp of your own breathing. The drag of Arden’s shoes against the linoleum as he moved back to his tray.

Without the shutter snapping you back, the world started to tilt.

Colors dulled. The cold beneath you seeped deeper into your skin, heavy and anchorless. The sharp edge of awareness—the one you fought to keep—wavered like a candle about to gutter out.

Arden’s voice slipped around you, muffled at the edges.

“Fascinating,” he said, almost tenderly. "The body's betrayal of the mind. The mind's betrayal of itself."

His words were shapes you barely recognized.

Your body stayed folded where he had put it, obedient even in absence.

You felt his hand reposition your arm again—soft, impersonal. Heard the scratch of pen against paper. Distant. Harmless.

You weren't here anymore, not fully.

Not in this room. Not in this body.

Somewhere safer. Somewhere quieter.

Somewhere he couldn’t reach.

At least for now.

You drifted.

No time. No place. No you.

When the world stitched itself back together, you were standing.

The rough brush of hands tugged at your gown—rebuttoning, fixing. An orderly’s hands, not Arden’s. The metal tray and instruments blurred into the edges of your vision.

“Move along.” The orderly muttered.

Your legs obeyed before you understood the command. Out the door, into the hall, the cold trailing you like smoke.

Somewhere above, thunder grumbled low across the ceiling. The storm had rolled in.

No outdoor time today.

The halls veered left instead of right, leading you back toward the common room.

The common room smelled like bleach and wet wool.

The orderly shoved you inside without ceremony. You stumbled a step, caught yourself, and blinked against the low gray light.

First thing—you looked for Pepper. You always did.

But the corner where she usually sat was empty. No hunched figure, no wild hands playing with whatever they grabbed first. Just a scuffed floor and a humming radiator.

You drifted toward the old bookshelf instead.

You didn’t remember sitting. One moment you were moving, the next, the cracked vinyl chair creaked under you. Your fingers brushed the armrests out of habit, tracing the worn edge where the material had split open years ago.

The music looped, faint and staticky, from the record player shoved against the far wall. The same song that always played. You didn’t remember what it was about, if you ever even knew. It blended into the background long ago.

You stared at the dust haloed around your shoes.

The door creaked again.

Someone new. A shuffle of boots and cuffs and a sharp, questioning voice. A familiar one. Kit.

You didn’t look up—not yet—but you felt him move across the room, a different rhythm than the others. Less slouched. Less beaten.

He headed straight for the record player.

You recognized the mistake before he even touched it.

You shifted, your body moving on reflex, a flicker of urgency stirring in your gut.

You started to rise—

But someone else was faster.

A woman—sharp, pale, her brown hair messy like she hadn't stopped moving for days—cut across the room and caught his wrist just before he could reach the needle.

Her voice was low, fierce, too fast for you to catch the words.

Kit jerked back, confused, but didn’t fight her.

You sank back down before you even realized you’d stood at all.

The record spun on. Outside, the thunder was getting just a touch louder.

You tried not to look. You really did. Your gaze was supposed to stay fixed, empty, the way you’d trained it to. The way you needed it to. But your eyes slid sideways anyway. Drawn to the scene across the room like a moth to a slow-burning flame.

The girl—you knew her, but you couldn’t remember her name—was speaking low and fast. You couldn’t hear all of it over the hum of the record, but you caught the shape of her urgency. Warnings, probably. Maybe an apology tucked inside it.

Kit leaned in, frowning, his hands half-lifted like he didn’t quite know whether to argue or surrender.

There was something strange about him. Not the way most of them were strange, cracked and hollow from the inside out. Something… newer. Rough-edged. Not worn down yet.

You dropped your gaze back to your lap. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t your business. Nothing here was.

But still—

Still—you found yourself glancing back, quick and secret, just once more.

Kit was nodding now, slowly, like he understood whatever Grace had said. His shoulders, still tense, dropped a little. He shifted awkwardly, scanning the room like he was trying to find somewhere he wouldn't be swallowed whole.

And just for a moment… his eyes caught yours.

You froze.

It was only a second. Maybe less. You looked away first, your heart ticking louder in your ribs than it should have.

It didn’t mean anything. He was new. He was looking at everything.

You pressed your palms flat against your thighs, grounding yourself in the sharp, worn texture of the chair’s fabric. Waiting for the minutes to bleed into each other again.

The storm moved closer. You could feel it. Like a slow, gathering pressure in the walls.  A low rumble shivered through the floor under your feet. The old building groaned with it, every window rattling faintly in its frame.

You held your breath without meaning to. Somewhere deep inside, some old instinct warned: Brace yourself.

The next crash came without warning— A crack of thunder so loud it rattled the cheap light fixtures overhead, peeling a scream from one of the patients across the room. She shot up from her chair, wailing, hands flailing wildly at nothing.

The music crackled on in the background, cheerful and tinny and wrong. A nurse shouted something. Two orderlies crossed the room in five long strides, closing in on the woman.

You flinched when the chair she kicked over clattered hard against the floor.

Kit looked up too—half-standing from his seat like he wasn’t sure whether to help or stay out of the way. The woman touched his arm and said something under her breath, firm and quick, and he sank back down reluctantly.

The woman’s screams pitched higher. Another crash of thunder. You squeezed your hands into fists in your lap to keep them from trembling.

The orderlies grabbed her roughly, dragging her struggling toward the door. One of her shoes came off in the scuffle, spinning across the floor before slapping to a stop near the old piano.

The common room felt bigger and emptier when they were gone. Everyone pretending not to notice. Everyone shrinking inward.

You stayed still. Small.  Ears pricked to the sound of the girl speaking in low tones to Kit. You didn't mean to listen. But your mind clung to noise, lately, like it was a rope keeping you tethered to the world. You weren’t sure why. You weren’t sure you wanted to know why.

“Don’t bother,” She was saying, her voice crisp and dry. “You’ll get used to it. Or you’ll stop caring. One or the other.”

Kit murmured something you couldn’t catch. You heard the scrape of his chair shifting against the floor. When you dared a glance, quick and careful, you caught him looking back at you.

Not at her. At you.

The look wasn’t sharp or mocking, the way new arrivals sometimes were. It was curious. Quiet. Like he was trying to understand something he didn’t have words for yet.

Your breath hitched, barely. A tiny jolt under your ribs. You dropped your gaze fast, hands knotting tighter in your lap.

She didn’t seem to notice. She just kept talking, something about the storm, about the routine here, about surviving.

You stared hard at the floorboards. But a part of you—the part that hadn't been completely crushed down yet—still felt Kit’s gaze. Still flickering and uncertain, like a flame struggling in a storm.

The storm outside rumbled again, rattling the old windows in their frames. You barely noticed the sound now, too focused on not focusing, trying to blend into the worn fabric of the chair. Kit and the woman’s voices blurred into the low drone of the common room’s usual noise.

Then—A sudden scuffle of footsteps near the door.

You turned your head automatically.

Pepper.

She was being herded into the room by an orderly, but the moment they let her go, she lit up like a lamp. Without hesitation, she beelined across the common room, weaving past shuffling bodies and sagging couches.

Straight to you.

No words. No questions. She simply plopped herself down at your side, so close her shoulder brushed yours. Like she’d been there the whole time. Like nothing bad could ever touch you while she sat guard.

You blinked, feeling the faintest, strangest flutter in your chest. A smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

Pepper smiled wide, a little crooked from the missing teeth she still hadn't stopped being proud of. She tucked herself even closer, humming something low under her breath—a half-forgotten tune from another life.

Across the room, you caught Kit looking again. Not staring. Not rude. Just... noticing.

You glanced away first.

Pepper leaned her head against your arm, humming for a moment longer before she spoke—soft and sing-song, like sharing a secret with a doll. “You talked at lunch,” she said, her voice tilting up like a question even though it wasn’t one. “Talked to the new boy.”

You stiffened slightly, but Pepper only giggled quietly, like it was funny.

“Not scared,” she added, patting your hand once with her small, worn fingers. “Good.”

Her smile stretched wide again, proud in that way only Pepper could be—proud of you for doing something as simple as answering a few questions.

You always believed Pepper was more perceptive than she let on, knew more than she let toner believe. This was definitely sinking a nail in that coffin.

The thought tightened something low in your chest.

It had felt like nothing at the time. A few words, a breath of conversation. But to Pepper, it was a lighthouse flickering on in the dark. A sign you were still in there somewhere, even if you barely recognized yourself most days.

You didn't know if that made you feel lighter or heavier.

Pepper curled closer, content just to be near you. Her trust was something you hadn’t earned lately, not really—but she gave it to you anyway, same as she always had. Unconditional.

You kept your gaze forward, trying to ignore the prickle behind your eyes. Trying to ignore the way Kit’s voice still echoed faintly across the room, low and warm, even if it wasn’t meant for you anymore.

The afternoon stretched on, heavy and slow. The record player hiccupped in its endless loop of warped music, thunder grumbling low against the walls.

You stayed still. So did Pepper, her head nodding drowsily against your shoulder, her small fingers absently twisting the edge of your sleeve.

Across the room, Kit had stopped talking with that woman. The newness of his arrival clung to him—awkward, restless. But he stayed where he was, tossing glances now and then like he was still figuring out the rules. He was.

Maybe you were, too.

A crash of thunder rattled the windows again. Somewhere near the stairwell, a patient shrieked—a high, broken sound—and the orderlies moved fast, their heavy steps pounding toward the noise.

You didn’t flinch. Neither did Pepper.

It wasn’t your business. It never was.

The hands of the old clock ticked forward, scraping toward the next hour.

Soon enough, a pair of orderlies appeared at the threshold. One of them jerked his chin at you—impatient, bored. You recognized the signal. Pepper stirred beside you but didn’t fight when you untangled from her. She just watched, wide-eyed, hugging herself as you stood.

The orderlies didn’t bother with words. They didn’t have to. You were expected to follow, and you did.

One last glance at the common room: Pepper’s small figure tucked against the window, Kit’s curious gaze lingering from across the room. You lowered your eyes and turned away.

The hallway beyond felt heavier somehow. Observation. Thirty minutes of being watched through glass you couldn’t see behind, locked alone with yourself and the hum of your own blood in your ears. They said it was for your safety.

They always said that.

The door clanged shut behind you. Heavy and final.

The observation room was empty except for a metal chair bolted to the floor. No windows. Only a dull grate whispering stale air into the corners. Somewhere beyond the mirrored glass, you knew they were watching.

You sat where you always sat: cross-legged on the ground, hands folded in your lap.

Good.

Obedient.

Easy to leave alone.

The storm still grumbled through the bones of the building, low and constant. But in here, it might as well have been a whole other world. You let your mind drift. It was easy. Too easy. Like a scab you’d been trained not to pick, but your fingers knew the motion by heart. The walls blurred. The hum of Briarcliff’s old veins faded.

Something else crept in.

Wooden floorboards. The smell of sweat and greasepaint. A canvas tent breathing heavy in the night air.

In a shadowed corner backstage at the freak show. You were small again, curled against a crate, heart hammering against your ribs.

Voices echoed, angry and slurred:

"—goddamn useless, you hear me—"

A thud.

A sharp grunt.

The crack of knuckles on bone.

You tried to press yourself smaller, invisible, but you saw it anyway— Dell towering over Jimmy, his fists wild, red blooming across Jimmy’s cheek.

You didn’t remember why. You only knew it happened. It always happened.

Your hands clenched against your skirt. Your breath snagged in your throat. You wanted to move. To help. But you were too scared. Too useless.

Like always.

The memory buckled, tearing itself in half—and you slammed back into yourself.

Observation room. Briarcliff. Now.

You gasped without sound, chest heaving once, twice. Your gown clung damp to your back. You stared at your hands, trembling and raw, and you knew with a cold, alien certainty:

You hadn’t remembered that before. But it wasn’t new. It wasn’t a lie.

It was real. And it had always been waiting.

The door creaked open without ceremony.

An orderly’s shadow filled the frame. You rose without being told, feet silent against the floor. Your body moved on muscle memory alone—out into the hall, down past the peeling walls, toward the dining area where the faint smell of boiled potatoes and burnt meat clung to the air.

Dinner. Another piece of the clockwork routine.

The room buzzed with low, unfocused noise—cutlery scraping metal trays, murmured arguments too slurred to matter. You slipped into your usual seat at the end of the row, back to the wall. A habit, not a comfort.

A tray clattered beside yours. The same as lunch.

You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The air shifted. Lighter. Less... heavy.

Still, you glanced. Still, there he was.

Kit.

He looked better than he had earlier—less rattled, but still frayed at the edges. His hair was damp, like he’d been shoved through a rushed cleanup. His tray held the same sad helping of food as yours: gray meatloaf, a few limp peas, mashed potatoes that looked more like paste.

For a minute, neither of you spoke. The clatter and hum of the cafeteria filled the space between.

You pushed your peas into a corner of the tray with the edge of your fork, not really tasting the food.

Kit tapped his fork once against his tray. Not loud. Just enough to get your attention without pulling it. "Hey," he said, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.

You glanced at him, wary. Not because it was him. Because you were used to silence meaning safety. Talking got you noticed. Getting noticed got you hurt.

But Kit didn’t seem dangerous. He looked tired. Frayed around the edges in a way you recognized too well.

"Grace said you been here a while," he said, quieter now. His accent softened the words, rounded them out like river stones. "Long enough to know how this place runs."

You blinked. Your fork paused halfway to your mouth. They talked about… you?

He gave a little shrug, almost sheepish. "Figure I oughta stick close to someone who’s survived it."

Something stirred in your chest. Not quite warmth. Not quite trust. Something more like... the first flutter of movement after being frozen too long.

You forced yourself to look back down at your tray. "I don’t talk much," you said—barely a whisper, barely more than truth.

Kit huffed out a soft laugh through his nose, like he wasn’t offended. Like he understood. "That’s alright," he said. "I talk enough for the both of us."

The words slid into you like a needle. Small. Sharp.  Unstoppable.

For a heartbeat, you weren't sitting in the Briarcliff cafeteria. You were somewhere else—somewhere warmer, dimmer. A canvas tent lit by bare bulbs. The smell of sawdust and smoke.

And him.

Jimmy, flashing that lopsided grin you’d always pretended not to love, teasing you the same way. "‘S'okay, doll. I talk enough for the both of us." His voice, roughened by laughter and cigarettes and hope.

It hit so fast you barely had time to register it. A blink. A flicker. Gone.

You sucked in a slow breath through your nose, grounding yourself back into the present—the sour stink of mashed potatoes, the buzz of the fluorescents, the low rumble of thunder outside.

Your hands had clenched tight around your fork without you realizing. Kit didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t push.  He just sat there beside you, easy and quiet.

Like he wasn’t in any rush to figure you out.

Another crack of thunder rattled the windows high above. Neither of you flinched. You were already used to worse.

He scooped up some mashed potatoes, made a face, and put the fork back down. "Jesus," he muttered, "what is this?"

A twitch almost—almost—tugged at your mouth. Not quite a smile. Something broken and half-remembered.

Kit caught it. You knew he did, because he smiled a little in return.  Not the smile you were used to seeing from people here.  Not the kind that meant danger. Just... tired and human.

For a few minutes, you ate in silence. Side by side. A strange kind of peace, fragile as spun glass.

The clock above the door ticked louder with every second. Each beat chipped away at the fragile bubble you sat inside, reminding you that nothing here stayed soft for long.

Around you, the cafeteria thinned. Trays scraped over metal counters, chairs scraped back. The heavy shuffle of bodies herded toward the next part of the night—the part where everything got quieter, darker, harder. Orderlies clearing out patients group by group.

Lights out.

An orderly’s bark echoed down the hall, sharp enough to make a few heads jerk up.

You rose when Kit did, a second behind him, moving like a shadow. His tray clattered onto the return cart. Yours followed. No words. Just motion.

You could feel Kit glance back once as you trailed behind the line of patients, could feel the quiet question of it—like maybe he wasn’t ready to let the thin thread of something between you snap just yet.

You kept your eyes on the floor.

The halls narrowed the deeper you went, swallowing the noise until there was only the thunder rumbling overhead and the scuff of slippered feet against cracked tile.

Your room was the same as always. A bed, grey sheets, and a window barred and curtained against the storm. The stale air clung to your skin, heavy with old fear.

The orderly gave a grunted order you barely heard. You moved on instinct, letting them shove some pills into your mouth before climbing into your bed, turning your face toward the wall. Fabric rustled around you as the others settled. A final flicker of light as the overheads snapped off.

Darkness.

You fall into your routine with ease. Reciting your names as you tap. Three quick taps. Break.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Elsa.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Ma Petite.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Paul.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Ethel.

Tap.  Tap. Tap. Eve.

Tap Tap Tap. Desiree.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Pepper.

Tap. Tap. Tap. A pause. A breath held too long.

"Jimmy—"

Your fingers froze mid-tap. The word hung there, raw and unfinished, like an open wound.

The air shifted.  The thin mattress beneath you seemed to heave once, then settle wrong, off-balance. The walls bled out at the edges, gray smearing into black. Your hand, still poised in the air, forgot gravity.

Something inside you slipped.

And you were falling.

The floor was rough under your knees.  The air smelled like whiskey and sweat and old anger. You were crouched in front of him.

Jimmy.

His lip was split, the blood already drying rusty at the corner of his mouth.  A bruise was blooming across his cheekbone, ugly and deep purple. One of his hands cradled his ribs, careful like they were broken.

You held a damp cloth in shaking fingers, dabbing gently at his face. Your other hand kept fluttering, unsure whether to touch his hair, his arm, something steadier. He was breathing hard—half from pain, half from rage he couldn't spit out yet.

"You gotta just..." Your voice barely rose above a whisper. "You gotta just let things go sometimes, Jimmy."

The cloth slipped from your hand. He caught your wrist—gently—and gave it a squeeze.

His eyes were glassy, wet at the edges, furious and hurting and helpless all at once. "When he's yellin' at you," he rasped, "I'm never lettin' it go."

Your breath caught. Something twisted sharp and sweet behind your ribs.

He meant it. He always meant it.

The world around you blurred again, the walls bleeding back to grey, the ground tilting—and you felt yourself slipping, the memory clinging like cobwebs to your skin.

The mattress pressed cold against your palms. You blinked hard. Once. Twice. The constant Briarcliff white noise The sour smell of bleach. The rattling pipes. The heavy dark of night pressing against the barred windows.

You were lying on your side. Hands curled close to your chest. Breathing shallow, like you’d been running.

Your cheeks were damp. You touched your face with clumsy fingers—salt and heat.  Tears. You hadn’t even felt them fall.

The memory still clung to you, half-faded but sharp enough to bleed.

Jimmy.  The fight. Dell’s fists. The shouting you couldn’t hear.

And you—there but not there.

You remembered now. You'd drifted. In the middle of it all, you had slipped away. Your body had stayed, frozen and helpless, while your mind fled somewhere safer.  That’s why you hadn’t remembered.  Not because it wasn’t important. Because it had been too much.

You shut your eyes tight, trying to hold the pieces together.

Outside your door, a nurse’s heels clicked against the tile. The night rolled on, indifferent.

You curled tighter into yourself, whispering old names against the noise.

Trying to stay here. Trying to stay you.

[poeticallyspiteful]

Heya!! I loved your peter maximoff music fic and if you are back on your peter obsession, can I request something with him and reader going on a date and facing backlash from rude people who don't like seeing a mutant in public?? Make it as angsty or happy as you like! Thank you!!

Silver Blur

Peter Maximoff x f!reader

Summary: “I’m a failure, you know that? I have nothing. Still live in my mom’s basement. I steal stupid shit because, I don’t know, my brain doesn’t know how to work any other way. I’m weird. And, to top it all off, I’m not even really human.” He looked down at his hands, long and nimble fingers, as if they carried something dirty, something that couldn’t be fixed. “And you… you’re everything.”

Warnings: fluffy, hurt/comfort, est. relationship, no use of y/n, prejudice towards mutants, a nasty guy, a bit of 'aggression' (totally deserved), insecure!peter, human!reader

A/N: hey love! i'm glad you liked that fic and i hope you can like this one <333 we have a little bit of angst, but i couldn't make it a tragic ending. and yes, my god, i watched x-men again just to see him and he is without a doubt the highlight of the movie

The diner had a nostalgic feel to it, even though you were too young to be nostalgic for anything there. The neon lights reflected off the chrome counter, the jukebox played an upbeat melody in the background, and the smell of greasy fries and burgers lingered in the air. It was the kind of place that suited him—half retro, half chaotic, a space that seemed to exist outside of time.

Peter sat across from you, silver hair catching the colorful glow, a crooked smile playing on his lips. His silver jacket, an essential piece, gleamed under the fluorescent lights. He was leaning on his forearms, watching you with an expression that made it clear that, if it were up to him, he’d spend his whole life just looking at you.

“You know I’m not supposed to be here,” he murmured, but with no real intention of leaving.

You raised an eyebrow, bringing the straw of your milkshake to your lips. “Peter, you always say that.”

He grinned, and his dimples appeared instantly. “And I’m always right.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop the warmth that spread through your chest at the sight of him, all soft and melted for you. He wasn’t anything you ever expected to find in life, but somehow, he was everything you wanted.

And then came the first glance.

The one you felt on your skin before you even realized what was happening.

A woman at the table next to you pulled her son closer, as if Peter were some kind of creature ready to attack him. A couple in the booth across whispered something to each other, eyes fixed on him with a mix of disdain and distrust. The waiter, who had seemed friendly until now, hesitated for a second before setting the plates down unceremoniously, as if touching them was enough to get contaminated.

Peter said nothing.

You knew he noticed. He always did.

But instead of reacting, he just drummed his fingers against the tabletop, looking away. His jaw was tight, shoulders a little more tense.

Hate.

People had so much hate.

“Do you want to get out of here?” you asked, your blood boiling.

He finally looked at you. And God, those dark eyes were a damn downfall. There was still a trace of a smile on his face, but it was different now—one you recognized.

The smile that said “it’s fine” when it really wasn’t.

“No.” He picked up a fry, twirling it between his fingers before popping it into his mouth. “If I left every place where I wasn’t welcome, there wouldn’t be much left, huh?”

Your chest tightened. He said it like it was a joke. Like it didn’t hurt. Like he was used to it.

And maybe he was.

But you weren’t.

You let go of your straw, crossing your arms over the table. “If anyone says anything, I—”

Peter let out a quiet laugh, leaning back against the seat. “You’re gonna defend me?”

“Obviously.”

He tilted his head to the side, silver hair falling over his forehead. His eyes glimmered, and a real smile returned.

“You’re perfect, you know that?”

This time, you were the one to look away, feeling your cheeks burn.

But the discomfort around you was still there, pulsing like a second skin.

Peter played it off well.

So well you almost believed he really didn’t care. That the stares didn’t get to him, that the whispers didn’t burn under his skin. But you knew Peter Maximoff. And Peter Maximoff was many things—fast, chaotic, ridiculously charming—but he wasn’t unbreakable.

You saw it in his eyes.

You saw it in the way his smile started to fade, in the way his fingers traced distracted patterns on the table, never stopping. You saw it in the way he got quieter, like he was disappearing into himself.

And you saw the exact moment he started to think he shouldn’t be here.

Not just in this diner.

With you.

He dropped his gaze to the table, idly playing with the cold fries on his plate. “Hey…” he murmured, without that usual easy, teasing tone. “Have you ever wondered what it would be like if you were with someone else?”

Your heart stumbled.

“What?”

He forced a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not saying you should, it’s just that… I think about it. A lot.”

You felt a lump in your throat.

“Peter.”

He looked away.

“I mean it. Look at you.” He gestured in the air, like he was presenting you to an invisible audience. “Beautiful, smart, cool as hell—it’s ridiculous. You could be with anyone. Any normal guy.”

“Normal,” you repeated, feeling something simmer beneath your skin.

He let out a quiet laugh, but it was empty.

“I’m a failure, you know that? I have nothing. Still live in my mom’s basement. I steal stupid shit because, I don’t know, my brain doesn’t know how to work any other way. I’m weird. And, to top it all off, I’m not even really human.” He looked down at his hands, long and nimble fingers, as if they carried something dirty, something that couldn’t be fixed. “And you… you’re everything.”

You clenched your fists on the table.

No.

No, you weren’t going to accept that.

“Peter, look at me.”

He hesitated, but obeyed.

“You’re not doing this.” Your voice was firm. “You’re not pushing me away with this bullshit speech.”

He opened his mouth, but you were faster.

“You are not a mistake, Peter. You are not a burden. You are not—” your voice faltered for a second, but you held his gaze, reaching out to take his hand, feeling his long, nimble fingers hesitate before intertwining with yours. “—a monster.”

His eyes widened, like you had just hit him square in the chest. Like he had never even considered the possibility of someone saying that out loud. He didn’t blink, didn’t breathe, just stared at you, dark eyes filled with something between shock and desperation, like he was trying to understand how the hell you could see all the good in him when he saw nothing at all.

You leaned over the table, completely ignoring the murmur around you, the strangers’ presence trying to creep into the night that belonged to the two of you. Your fingers traced the pulse at his wrist, following the line of a vein that was beating too fast, as fast as his erratic heartbeat. His face was close now, so close you could count his silver lashes, see the reflection of the diner’s neon sign dancing across his dark eyes, hear the way his breath hitched when you squeezed his hand tighter.

“You’re mine,” you murmured, each word sinking into his skin like a promise. “And I’m yours.”

His throat bobbed.

“Did you hear me, Peter?”

He blinked, dazed, like he was processing it slowly, like the idea of belonging to someone—of someone wanting to belong to him—was too distant, too impossible to be real.

So you did something that left no room for doubt.

You leaned in and kissed him.

His lips were cold from the milkshake, but his mouth gave in immediately, warm and intense and tasting like something he never, never believed he deserved. His body tensed for a second, like he was about to run, but then his hand squeezed yours tighter, and he leaned in for more, like he was trying to memorize every detail of the feeling before someone could take it away from him.

But then, the voice came.

Sharp, filled with disgust.

“You mutants never know your place.”

The world froze.

You pulled away slowly, feeling Peter’s skin stiffen under your touch, feeling his fingers turn cold around yours.

The voice came again, this time even more venomous.

“People like you aren’t welcome here.”

You turned around.

The man was big, broad shoulders, disheveled hair, his eyes carrying a very specific kind of rage. A rage that didn’t come from anything concrete, nothing he could truly explain. Just pure hatred for something he didn’t understand.

Peter didn’t say anything. He just stared, an eerily serene expression on his face.

His silence only seemed to make the man angrier.

He let out a low, sarcastic laugh, leaning over the table with a dirty smirk. “Look at you. You know you’re a freak, right, kid?”

Your blood boiled.

You didn’t care about the stares, didn’t care about the whispers or the way people seemed to subtly move away from your table, like Peter was a threat, like he was something to be feared. You knew he had dealt with this for years. You knew the words rolled off him like water, that he was too fast to care, that the best response was always a joke.

But not now.

Not when some disgusting man thought he could open his mouth and spew all that hatred like he had any right to.

You felt your chest rise and fall too fast, felt your fist clench at your side, ready to say something, do something—but then you felt it.

His hand. His long fingers slid over your wrist, a steady grip, a silent squeeze that said “no.” Peter held your hand.

And then the man turned to you. And smiled. A filthy, disgusting smile, all yellowed teeth and rotten intentions.

“Bet you’ve never been with a real man. I could show you a good time, girl.”

Peter’s hand slipped away from yours.

It was immediate.

You felt it before you even realized. The air shifted, thick with electricity, like the second before lightning splits the sky.

When you looked at Peter, he still seemed calm. But it was the dangerous kind of calm.

His mouth was still relaxed, his shoulders still loose, but his eyes—God, his eyes—held no amusement now. They were fixed on the man before him, burning like embers, scanning every inch of him like he was deciding the best way to take him apart.

And then Peter smiled. A lazy, lopsided grin, a glimmer of mockery dancing behind the threat.

“Wow.” Peter whistled. “Did you rehearse that in the mirror, or did it just come out like that?”

The man’s face darkened. Peter grinned.

“Because if it just came out like that, congrats. You’re a natural asshole.”

And then, in the blink of an eye, he was gone. Just one second. Just a silver blur.

The man didn’t even have time to react. One moment he was standing—and the next, he was on his knees.

The entire diner went still. Glasses rattled on the tables. The air was split by the sharp sound of impact.

No one saw Peter move.

The only thing left was him, standing in front of the man now kneeling on the floor, fingers delicately gripping the collar of his worn-out jacket, like he had placed him there as easily as setting down a cup.

Peter’s eyes glowed under the diner’s red neon lights, the shadow of a smirk twisting his mouth.

“Let me tell you a secret.” His voice came low, slow. “If you open that filthy mouth again, I’ll make you swallow every word.”

The man froze.

Peter’s smirk widened.

“And trust me,” he slid a finger over the guy’s shoulder as if brushing off dust, “I’m very fast.”

The man tried to move.

Another silver blur.

And suddenly, the guy was sitting on the counter, feet dangling in the air, not even knowing how the hell he got there.

The entire diner gasped.

Peter clicked his tongue, resting an elbow on the counter, relaxed, as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

“Need a map, buddy? You look lost.”

The man blinked. His hands pressed against the counter, as if trying to find balance, as if trying to understand.

Peter just smiled, and before the guy could open his mouth, he tilted his face, lowering his voice to something more intimate, almost confidential.

“Let me guess.” He rested his chin on his hand, eyes lit with a cold amusement. “You’re not feeling so brave anymore, are you?”

He snapped his fingers. Another silver blur, and the man was back on the floor.

His breath came fast, erratic.

This time, he didn’t try to speak.

Peter smiled, as if finally satisfied.

You threw a few bills onto the table, not counting, not looking, just leaving them there, as if money had any significance in the middle of that mess, as if it could pay for the man’s discomfort, for the disgusting words he had pretended didn’t affect him.

And then you turned.

He was already waiting for you. His face still slightly tilted, eyebrows raised in a mix of impatience and expectation, as if silently asking if you could finally leave.

You nodded.

And in the blink of an eye, the world disappeared.

Your stomach flipped, and your heart jumped to your throat. It was like being pulled by an invisible force, a train too fast to follow, to process—cold air cut against your skin, sounds blurred into the distance, and then, suddenly, everything stopped.

Your feet touched solid ground. The world stopped spinning.

But your body didn’t know that yet.

You blinked a few times, trying to adjust your vision.

The sky was dark, speckled with stars, the moon casting its silver glow over everything around you. The grass beneath your feet swayed gently with the wind. You were alone, no artificial lights, no whispering voices, no disgusted stares burning against his skin.

Just the two of you.

Just him.

Just Peter, now looking at you with raw concern in his eyes, eyebrows furrowed, lips slightly parted, as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know where to start.

“Hey.” His fingers touched your face with impossible gentleness, pushing strands of hair away from your skin, thumbs brushing slowly over your cheekbones, as if searching for something. “You okay?”

Your breath was still uneven, the adrenaline from what had happened at the diner, from the impossible journey to this place, still rushing through your veins like a reminder of how fast he was.

But he was here. Dark eyes, watchful. Fingers still on your face. His concern hung in the air, dense, almost tangible.

You closed your eyes for a second, inhaling slowly. “Just… a little dizzy.”

Relief flickered across his face. He let his hands slide down your arms, from your shoulders to your elbows, a warm, steady touch, like he was grounding you here, with him. Then he stopped—his gaze shifted.

You felt it before realizing what it was. The wind blew, sharp against your exposed skin, and before you could react, you felt something warm and soft drape over your shoulders.

His jacket.

The silver fabric still held his body heat, still smelled like him.

Peter adjusted it around you, his fingers lingering on your collarbones for a second longer than necessary before pulling away.

The silence between you was different now. Heavy. Charged. You looked at him, and he looked away.

His eyes didn’t meet yours. His jaw was clenched, shoulders tense, fingers idly playing with the zipper of his hoodie—a nervous habit you knew all too well.

Peter was never one to keep things to himself. He filled every silence with fast words and unfiltered jokes.

But now, he was quiet.

And that said more than anything he could have said.

You took a step forward, feeling the jacket move with you, his scent wrapping around you.

He noticed the movement but didn’t move.

Your fingers touched the side of his face, guiding him to look at you.

And he did.

His eyes were dark, deep, filled with something he was trying to hide, but that overflowed anyway.

You knew that look.

It was the look he had when he saw the prejudice he had faced since childhood spill onto you. It was the look of someone blaming himself for something that wasn’t his fault.

You sighed, your fingers tracing the strong line of his jaw, moving up into his silver hair, threading through the soft strands. He closed his eyes for a second.

Rested his forehead against yours.

Sighed.

“I hate this.”

His voice was low, restrained.

You didn’t ask what.

You already knew the answer.

He hated that you had to hear that kind of thing.

Hated that your name had been spat from the mouth of a disgusting asshole.

Hated that you had been dragged into it.

He hated that the world didn’t accept who he was.

And he hated even more that it hurt you.

You held his face more firmly, forcing him to look at you again.

"I love you."

His eyes shone.

You traced your fingers along the sharp line of his jaw, the space between his cheek and that ever-present dimple, the corner of his mouth—mapping him with care, as if reaffirming something he should never doubt.

"I don’t care what they think. I don’t care what they say."

You leaned in closer, and he stayed still, like he was absorbing every word, like he needed to hear them.

"You’re mine, remember?"

Peter swallowed hard.

A muscle jumped in his throat.

His chest rose and fell in a slower rhythm, his breathing heavy.

And then, he moved. His fingers found your face with urgency, his mouth pressing against yours without hesitation.

The kiss was slow, deep. Filled with everything he didn’t know how to say. His hands slid to your waist, pulling you in, holding you like he needed to feel that you were there, real, whole.

When he pulled back, just enough to breathe, his eyes were softer.

The weight on his shoulders seemed a little lighter.

He nudged his nose against yours, a small smile dancing at the corner of his lips.

"I’m yours, huh?"

You smiled back.

And when you answered, your voice was absolute certainty.

"Yes."

Peter smiled.

That smile. The one that was just yours. The one that made his dimples appear, that made his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, that left him looking hopelessly in love. The one you would never get tired of seeing.

He kissed your forehead, slow, his lips lingering a little longer than necessary before pulling away.

And then he laced his fingers through yours, holding your hand firmly, like he knew that even without words, that touch said everything he wanted to say.

And somehow, you knew exactly what it was.

Peter didn’t like the world.

But he liked you.

He liked you a lot.

[poeticallyspiteful]

‼️🚨 requests for chad meeks martin?? 🚨‼️

‼️🚨 requests for chad meeks martin?? 🚨‼️

‼️🚨 requests for chad meeks martin?? 🚨‼️

please please please please please please please

[poeticallyspiteful]

for real.

someone talk to me about dewey riley, randy meeks, wes hicks, and ethan landry!! scream is my comfort franchise right now and i am clawing at the bars of my enclosure for these men, gimme all of your thoughts and i will write a blurb PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE 🥺💗

[poeticallyspiteful]

someone talk to me about dewey riley, randy meeks, wes hicks, and ethan landry!! scream is my comfort franchise right now and i am clawing at the bars of my enclosure for these men, gimme all of your thoughts and i will write a blurb PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE 🥺💗

[poeticallyspiteful]

• dating dewey riley during the woodsbro murders •

dewey riley x reader

fluff / angst

cw: mention of sex, being sorta stabbed, ghostface being mean to dewey

notes: i am in love with him.

to set the scene, you are a year younger than him and used to babysit tatum.

you had always though dewey was cute and made polite conversation all through high school (maybe even some light flirting) but didn’t see each other for years after dewey graduated and you followed.

while he went to the police academy, you took over the local library and you ran into each other around town but never made it past blushing small talk.

however, when dewey finally became deputy, about a two years before the attack, and he ran into you at a coffee shop, he took his achievement-fueled adrenalin and finally made a move on you.

he’d always thought you were gorgeous and he’d been too much of a coward to act on it, but he was not about to let that happen again.

then, two years later, you and dewey lived in an apartment not far from his mother’s house, happy and in love as ever.

however, when casey and her boyfriend got butchered in their own home, you both immediately came to stay with his mom and sister while the hunt for ghostface continued.

dewey was regularly protective, but when ghostface is on the loose? get ready.

he sleeps with his gun on the nightstand, quadruple checks all the doors and windows are locked, and periodically wakes up in the middle of the night to check on you.

he doesn’t let you stay home alone and even when you’re both home, he follows you around and doesn’t let you do anything alone.

he stands with you while you cook, sits outside of the shower (or joins you), and if you need alone time, best believe he’s sitting outside of the door, very quietly, just in case.

one night, when you’re working at the library, closing up alone, ghostface attacks.

he calls dewey, taunting him over the phone.

“truth or dare, deputy?”

“don’t you touch her. i’ll find you, i’ll hunt you to the edge of the earth—”

“answer the question or i’ll slice her throat from ear to ear. i wonder if her insides are as pretty as her outsides.”

“…truth.”

ghostface goes on to mock him—saying he didn’t love you enough, wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t brave enough.

while he’s deep into his villain monologue, however, you managed to grab a fire extinguisher from behind the desk and swung it as hard as you possibly could at his head.

he managed to slash your side on the way out, but you hardly noticed as adrenaline coursed through your body and you booked it.

you ran faster than you ever had, and you swore you had gotten halfway across town before someone spotted you and you snapped out of it.

“my husband, my husband, call— call him,” you rambled to paramedics as they tried to load you into an ambulance, your blood loss making you a bit light headed.

“who’s your husband, honey?”

“deputy dwight riley. please call him.”

the ambulance ride was a blur, and by the time they made the first stitch in your side, dewey was barreling in, stammering your name to every nurse until someone pointed.

he held your hand as they stitched you up and when they decided to keep you overnight for observation, he insisted on staying by your side all night, visiting hours be damned.

“i’m so proud of you,” he whispered, rubbing a hand up and down your arm, trying to hold back the tears in his eyes. “i’m so sorry. i was— i was so scared, i knew i shouldn’t have let you close alone, i should’ve been there—”

“hey, hey, none of that,” you replied, admittedly sleepily, catching his hand, interlocking your fingers. “none of what he said was true, honey. you are strong, you are brave, and i know you love me.”

you fell asleep almost immediately after that, and as a night nurse stopped in to check your stitches, she spoke softly to dewey next to you.

“you must be a good husband. she kept asking for you in the ambulance and every minute until you got here.”

dewey almost passed out. “i’m sorry, what?”

“yeah, yeah, ‘call my husband, please call my husband’ the whole time. poor girl was terrified.”

she left the room after that and dewey pretty much stared at you, mouth open like a fly trap

he knows your still asleep, but he squeezes your hand and whispers anyways, through teary eyed laughter

“husband, huh?”

notes: please lemme know if literally anyone is into this absolutely adorable and hot man and i’ll write some more for him 💗

[poeticallyspiteful]

i’m accepting requests for kit walker and colin sable right now 🥰 please send them in!!

[poeticallyspiteful]

the way things change (ch. two)

ethan landry x reader

fluff/angst

cw: mentions of blood loss, scars, chronic pain, ptsd, panic attacks, paranoia, nightmares, insomnia, murder?? like it’s scream, allusions to violence, minimal real violence, insults thrown towards the reader, hospitals, alcohol consumption, allusions to sex, i think that’s it but lemme know if i missed anything

summary: after almost a year of recovery, ethan’s helping you push yourself into some immersion therapy—you’re not loving it.

notes: here’s the second official chapter, i hope y’all enjoy. i apologize for the bad ending, but you win some you lose some. enjoy!!

you woke up to the sound of whirring, and for a moment, you thought it must have been your bedroom fan. however, as you peeled open your eyes to reveal a gray spotted ceiling and florescent lights, the memory of the previous night came back to you.

you’d been looking for ethan, you’d tripped on a lift in the floor boards, and then boom: ghostface popped out and stabbed you in the gut. your scream had alerted those in the next door room, so your assailant barely had time to pull his knife out and whisper a parting message before he made his exit out the back door.

“it’s nothing personal, honey—your boy toy just had it coming.”

the voice was oddly familiar, but you could hardly even piece together the events following it’s exit, so that hardly seemed like your main concern.

instead, you chose to focus on the blinding lights and the freezing cold room. you whined, attempting to speak through the dryness in your mouth and throat. before you could turn your head, a voice perked up from beside you.

“oh my god.”

ethan.

there he was.

“baby? are you okay? what do you need?”

you could tell he was panicking, and your suspicions were only confirmed as you turned your head and saw his red rimmed eyes and frizzy hair.

“wa-er.” you managed, nearly gagging as your tongue stuck to the roof of your cotton mouth.

he snapped into action, fumbling for his bottle and bringing it up to your lips, helping you sip. five minutes later, and half the bottle gone, you slumped back down.

“how are you feeling? what hurts?” he rambles.

“my stomach. around where i was stabbed,” you groaned, struggling to sit up as you fisted at the papery hospital sheets in pain.

“hey, hey, hey!” ethan rushed out, stumbling to stand and support you as your muscles spasmed.

you fell down with a strangled moan of pain as a sharp sensation shot deep in your gut. jesus, were you being stabbed again?

ethan grabbed your arms, helping you return to a comfortable position as you shut your eyes and attempted a deep breath. you didn’t even realize he was crying until he spoke again.

“fuck, i’m so sorry.”

your eyes shot open (about halfway) as his voice cracked, and you wound your hand around to grab his arm, smiling softly.

“ethan, what are you talking about?”

“we were arguing, and i left you, and then you were attacked,” he whispered tearily. “they were waiting for me to walk away and i did. you could’ve died and it would’ve—”

“—not been your fault.” you slipped a hand away, rising it to wipe some tears off of his cheek. you gave him your best smile despite the dried, cracking skin of your lips. “this is not and never would have been your fault.”

ethan frowns, sniffling. “he literally said it was my fault right after he stabbed you!”

you rolled your eyes. “and since when is ghostface the pinnacle of sense and judgement?”

this pulls a laugh out of him. he swallows thickly, and after a long moment of silence, his deep voice rumbles, his grogginess and distress evident in his tone.

“i was really scared, y’know. i thought i was gonna lose you,” he said. “‘m never leaving your side again.”

it had been ten 30 minutes at that goddamn frat house and you were already having a panic attack.

after a few more minutes of socialization, you’d assured ethan you could refill your drinks alone. he’d put in all this effort to support your recovery, you might as well try and take a step out of your comfort zone. so, you simply asked him to stay put so you didn’t lose each other.

but then you did lose each other. and now you were on the verge of tears, pressed up against a wall that you were pretty sure had mold growing in the corners.

it was probably fine. he was most likely just lost in the sea of people, probably weaving his way through in search of you.

or he was bleeding out in the other room and you weren’t gonna make it in time to save him.

or ghostface was hiding in that corner and you’d be bleeding out by the time he found you. again.

was the room getting warmer?

bodies bumped against you and you struggled to take deep breaths, your heart beating so hard against your ribs you were surprised they didn’t splinter under the pressure.

speaking of pressure, your head ached, as if someone was pressing on your temples and eyes and—hell— your frontal lobe.

in: one, two, three, four.

hold: one, two, three, four.

out: one, two, three, four.

was that person wearing a black robe?

goddammit, dr. perez, these stupid fucking breathing excuses are not working.

in: one, two, three—

“boo!”

a scream ripped out of your throat before you even registered the site in front of you: a familiar man in a black robe with a white mask, holding a knife above your head. you fell back into the corner of the wall, leg shooting out in a sharp kick to the crotch as you ducked, arms coming up in a protective position.

the knife bounced on the ground. bounced. rubber and plastic. it was fucking rubber and plastic. and the figure groaning in pain on the ground was a drunk frat boy, not ghostface.

you took a shuddering breath of relief, trying to kick yourself out of the corner, but you gave up as ethan and chad appeared from around the corner, pushing through the crowd.

oh great, a crowd was forming.

“hey, hey, deep breaths,” ethan starts, ducking in front of you and grabbing your violently shaking hands. “it’s okay, you’re okay, baby.”

you struggled to rasp out an explanation but suddenly, you were crying and fuck, did your leg hurt. why did you kick with the bad one?

ethan, the guardian angel of the millennia, seemed to read your mind and picked you up off the ground, holding you tight against him.

“you’re okay, everything’s okay,” he whispers, jaw clenching as he makes eye contact with the ghostface impersonator, who chad had by the scruff of his neck.

‘ghostface’ scoffs, rolling his eyes. “oh come on, she’s the victim here? it was a joke and that bitch attacked me!”

ethan’s expression darkens and his grip on you loosens momentarily, moving you behind him. “excuse me?”

chad yanked ‘ghostface’ back, opening his mouth to speak, but the drunken idiot beat him to it.

“that shit was a year ago, man. it’s not our fault she’s a lunatic. if she’s gonna act like a rabid animal, at least keep her on a leash.”

ethan stepped forward, an incredulous and dangerous smile on his face, but chad lifts his hand on nods back to you.

“don’t worry, i’ll take care of this copycat motherfucker—” another tug on his collar “—you take your girl home.”

“you don’t have to carry me,” you said softly, arms locked around his neck as he carried you up the stairs to his apartment, bridal style.

“you can’t walk. what’s the alternative?”

you roll your eyes. “i was limping, ethan. i saved your life on a much worse leg, i will survive stairs.”

ethan smiles as he sets you down outside of the apartment door, grabbing the key out of his pocket.

“well, would you look at that? i survived stairs too. now, lets get you changed and in bed,” he says, pushing the door open and helping you into the apartment.

“so eager to get my clothes off,” you tease, limping to his room and sinking into his bed. “gimme a shirt please.”

“bossy,” he murmurs, tossing you one anyhow, before stripping off his own and changing into a pair of pajama pants. you couldn’t help the heat that rose to your cheeks; a year and a half together and you still felt like a blushing virgin every time.

you changed into his t-shirt quickly, before requesting his assistance in the bathroom with washing your face and brushing your teeth (or more so with keeping you upright while you did so).

once you were finally in bed, you slumped against the pillows in exhaustion, curling up on ethan’s chest with his arm securely around you. you took deep breaths, listening to his heart beat, and letting yours slow with it. after a long minute, ethan spoke up, his chest rumbling against your ear.

“i wish i could’ve beat that dumbass to a pulp.”

you flushed, finding his aggressive protectiveness far too attractive. “i’m okay. he just spooked me.”

“he called you a feral bitch, i should’ve bashed his head against the wall,” he whispered, kissing the top of you head with a juxtaposing gentleness.

“i got him pretty good,” you teased, tracing soft, soothing patterns on his chest. “plus, i like this much better.”

“i like this too… i’d just also like to bash his head against the wall,” he whispered.

you looked up, pressing a gentle kiss against his clenched jaw, and trailing them down his neck to his chest. “my big scary boyfriend… very sexy. if i was physically or mentally able to jump your bones right now, i would.”

he laughed quietly, and you smiled, relieved you’d calmed him a bit. you loved him to death but ethan often ruminated on these things, wishing that he would have done more even when more would not necessarily have been better. in your experience, it was always best to simply reassure him and move on, not allowing for the toxic thoughts to seep in too far—however, this was not always enough to stop the spiral.

tonight was one of those nights.

“i think he’s in my econ class,” he said after a moment, and without even looking, you could tell he was staring off, burning a hole through the wall. “i should say something to him. i should say something to the professor, that sort of shit should get you kicked out of school! harassing a victim of a serial killer in a costume with a fake weapon? what the fuck is wrong with these people—”

“ethan, honey, breathe please,” you laughed nervously, rubbing circles on his chest. “he’s a dick but he’s not the first one. don’t get all worked up, that’s what he wants.”

ethan shook his head again. “i hate it though. you’ve been through enough.”

“so have you.”

he scoffs. “so what?”

you turned over a bit, looking up at him and cupping his jaw with one hand. “we have all been through enough. so as hard as it may be, we can’t let these things get to us. our lives have changed, our mentalities must change with them.”

ethan smiles softly. “you’re so poetic,” he whispers as he leans down and presses a soft kiss to your lips. “i love you, baby.”

“i love you too.”

[poeticallyspiteful]

thinking about taking requests for newt again 🤭

i’m not gonna officially but him back on my list yet but if y’all have any blurb or one-shot ideas, let me know 💕💕

Hi there.

Maybe a newt x f reader where reader its a healer ( doctor) . reader was a friend of theseus and they were working on a case from the Ministry of magic. Thank you so much ❤️

kiss it better

newt scamander x reader

fluff (making out)

cw: unedited, blood, a lil bit of ~suggestiveness~/(okay a lot a bit of suggestiveness i write like a romance novelist sometimes lol sorry not sorry), making out, newt is ripped and hot as hell

summary: newt gets injured and theseus knows the perfect person to kiss it better.

notes: thank you so much for the request love!!! i wasn’t sure exactly what you were looking for with this one so i just used my imagination so i do hope you like it. feel free to request something more if you don’t though :))

16+ please!!

“theseus, this is ridiculous, let go of me.”

it was a small cut, just a little one. a small mishap with alone of his creatures, that was all. such a tiny little ailment.

“it is bleeding profusely and goes all the way across your stomach, newt!” theseus exclaimed, pulling his brothers coat sleeve like a child dragging their parents through a candy store. “she’s very nice, you know that.”

oh, newt knew you were nice— that was the problem. you were so nice, so pretty, so incredibly everything that newt could hardly bare it. years and years of friendship with you and he could hardly even contain his joy at the sound of your laugh, at the mere sight of you. it made it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to exist when all he could focus on was you.

“you’re working a case, theseus,” newt sighed, allowing his brother to pull him up the stairs to your apartment. “she’s probably reviewing files or something, it would be rude to interrupt her work.”

but the scamander brothers were already outside your door, and theseus was already knocking. before newt could brace himself for the wave of love sickness that would inevitably hit him the second he saw you, the door swung open and there you were; nice, pretty, perfect.

“hi newt, theseus,” you greeted, chest heaving (you may have ran across the apartment the second you’d heard their voices coming down the hall) “what can i— oh merlin’s beard.”

newt looked down, unsurprised to see the blood had seeped through his white shirt. he gave you a lopsided smile and you rolled your eyes, a pitiful attempt to avoid eye contact with the boyish man before you.

“come inside.”

theseus all but shoved newt inside, already straightening out his suit and brushing the left over floo powder off of his shirt. he looked up to you and his brother, unphased by the confused look on your faces.

“well, i best be off.”

you gawked at him. “your— your not going to stay?” you asked. he shook his head. “theseus! your brother is injured and you’re leaving?”

“we have a case!”

“it’s really okay,” newt said, bashfully, suddenly reminding you of the reason they were there.

scoffing, you turned back to newt, waving your friend off. “workaholic,” you murdered as you began searching for your emergency bandage kit.

and with that, theseus shut the door— but not before sending his brother a mischievous wink. newt felt a shiver down his spine.

sneaky bastard.

you finally found the small red box, pulling it open and rifling through it for a disinfectant and some gaws, as well as a mini suture kit.

glancing up at newt through your eyelashes, you hummed expectantly. “shirt off,” you ordered, some foreign sort of confidence surging through you.

newt swore all the brain cells left his mind. “pardon?” he chocked, suddenly not too concerned with his injuries.

“i can’t exactly fix you through the shirt. now c’mon, we don’t have all day,” you explained.

quickly, newt obeyed, shedding his baggy coat and undoing the bloodied buttons. very quickly, he felt exposed, but the bashful look on your face made him feel more smug than anything.

you had never seen newt shirtless before now, but my lord, did you wish the sight to be engraved in your mind till the day you died. you could see the viens that traveled up his tanned arms, and as shocked to see his biceps had been rather toned under that jacket all this time. his freckles spanned all down his chest and arms as well, dancing around the thin scars across him.

for a man so cute and clever, he was sure an enthralling sight to see.

clearing your throat, you finally looked down at the wound intently, relieved to see it didn’t look like too hard of a fix. with some shallow sutures and cleaning, he’d be better in no time.

“not too bad,” you murmured without thinking, entire body going cold at the implication. shit. the clever smile on newts face grew. “i— i meant the cut isn’t too bad, doesn’t look, y’know, infected.”

“good,” newt agreed, leaning back on his arms. his abdomen tensed at the movement and he hissed at the pain. “ouch.”

before you could look at him too closely, or think too much apparently, you knealt down infront of him. however, as he opened his legs to allow you space between them, you realized the predicament you’d put yourself in.

holy fucking shit.

you looked up hesitantly, feeling your heart race at the way newt looked down at you; nervous and kind, like he was just as surprised by your position as you were.

“this might sting a little,” you announced, trying to redirect his (and yours) attention back to the real reason you were on your knees.

carefully, you wiped the cotton pad across the cut, cleaning up the blood around the wound. newt hissed again, hands gripping the blanket laid across your couch. you had to will yourself to keep your eyes on the wound.

“almost done,” you reassured, finally looking up to see newts eyes screwed shut in pain. quickly, you dabbed at the far end of the wound, bringing your hands down quickly. “all done.”

newt sighed in relief, swallowing roughly. he glanced down to his stomach, feeling his head buzz as you looked back up at him. “whatcha thinking, doc?” he teased.

you could’ve died at the irony. you could not tell him what you were thinking right now.

“well, it’ll only need a few stitches at the edges there on the left, but it should be fine otherwise. just some bandages and you’ll be good,” you answered.

“no magic?” he asked.

“sadly, my regulations to do these sorts of healing charms only spans as far as britain,” you replied. “i’m working on getting the papers here in the states, but for now, just my handy work.”

newt smiled, another grin which made you weak in the knees. “your handy work is quite good.”

you ignored the heat in your face from the praise as you began you sutures. you felt newt shiver under your hands as they fluttered across his stomach, tracing the stitches and looking for any imperfections. finally satisfied with the stitching, you taped some bandages across them, and stood up once you were done. three easy steps, and nothing went wrong—

as you took a step back, you stumbled over the edge of your rug, fumbling backwards as you tried to regain your balance. before you realized what had happened, you felt newts hands on the back of your thighs, pulling you forward.

and forward was onto his lap.

you had spoken too soon.

you caught yourself with a tight grip on his bare shoulders, the skin soft and hot under your hands. your face was barely an inch from his, and your eyes met his in a brief moment of panic.

“s-sorry, i just didn’t want you to hit your head on the coffee table,” newt whispered, eyes darting form your eyes to your lips and back again nervously. he seemed very regretful of his action at first, but he didn’t budge to move you off of him, hands gripping the flesh around your hips.

“t-thank you,” you stammered, gathering all your strength not to squirm in his arms, your heart beating faster than your blood could pump.

newts eyes found yours again, thumbs making small circles in your hip bone. “have i ever told you that you’re very pretty?” the low rasp of his voice could’ve made you faint on any ordinary day, but given that you were practically straddling him, nothing could’ve made you more lightheaded. “especially up so close.”

“newt,” you whispered.

“what, love?”

“please kiss me.”

newt closed the gap without a second thought, kissing you gently. his lips were soft, but needy, pulling away and coming back for more over and over and over again. his hands traveled from your hips all the way up to your head, resting on your jaw. you moved your hands up his neck, playing with the curls on the nape.

you whined as he pulled away entirely, pulling him impossibly closer to yourself. “why’d you stop?”

“isn’t there a rule about strenuous activities post surgery?” he teased, laughing as he pressed another kiss to your lips briefly; he had waited too long to do this and he didn’t wanna stop now. “making out seems pretty strenuous to me.”

“i’ll kiss it better.”

[poeticallyspiteful]

the way things change (ch. one)

ethan landry x reader

fluff/angst

cw: mentions of broken bones, blood loss, nerve damage, scars, burns, hand tremors, physical therapy, wheelchairs, chronic pain, a feeding tube, ptsd, the panic attacks, paranoia, nightmares, insomnia, murder?? like it’s scream, alcohol consumption, allusions to sex, i think that’s it but lemme know if i missed anything

summary: after almost a year of recovery, ethan’s helping you push yourself into some immersion therapy—you’re not loving it.

notes: i hope y’all like the first official chapter, apologies for the ending, it was getting too long so i had to cut part of it to move it to the next chapter. enjoy!!

"do you think this is cute?" you stepped out of the bathroom, lifting your arms as stiff as a mannequin. your party clothes were comfortable but this was the first time in months you've really gotten ready; you couldn't help but feel a stranger in your own clothes.

three broken ribs, severe blood loss, nerve damage in your hands, and a shattered knee— not to mention the scars from burns and cuts and stabs that littered your body from head to toe. you were left quite literally broken into pieces after that night.

but, miraculously, you survived— even if that meant the recovery was mind breaking.

the hand tremors, the physical therapy, the wheelchair and the cane it had been traded in for. the scars, the random, blinding pains, being fed from a tube for months because stomaching food was nearly impossible. the ptsd, the panic attacks, the paranoia and the nightmares that turned into crippling insomnia.

the farther down the road you traveled, the more it seemed like a tunnel with no light at the end.

however, you had ethan. and he made everything infinitely better.

even now, you felt your muscles relax as he looked up from his phone, a small smile breaking out on his face at the sight of you.

“you’re gorgeous.”

you rolled your eyes as you fought back a smile, cheeks heating. “that’s not what i asked.”

“i don’t care. you’re gorgeous,” ethan said, closing the space between you and putting his hands on your hips.

you bit the inside of your lip to cinch your grin as you leaned into his touch.

“this is unfair, you can’t be cute when i’m supposed to be mad at you.”

ethan scoffed, tugging you forward until you were flush against his chest, his arms fully wrapped around you like a cocoon. “i’m making you follow your therapists instructions and attend a small party for an hour. you’ll live, princess.”

“so mean…” she mumbles against his chest, wrapping her arms around his torso.

“i know, i’m horrible. let’s go.”

the second you walked into the god awful frat house, a wave of nausea overcame you. the stench of beer wafted through the room, mingling with a sweaty, musty undertone.

"you said this was supposed to be a small party?" you asked, as a very drunk boy stumbled past you, nearly knocking you over. ethan pulled you tight against his side, though the packed room makes you both felt like you were overheating.

"yeah, on second thought, chad's not a very good judge of these things,” he says, eyes trailing after the drunk that almost ran you down.

you lean against him, looking up through your eyelashes with the needy look he can never deny. “can we leave? please?”

ethan furrows his brow, frowning at you. “we can still have fun! c’mon, just an hour. less than that! just 50 minutes now.”

you whine exaggeratedly as he leads you to a less crowded corner. “last time i was at one of these, someone stabbed me, so i feel i have good reason for hesitation.”

ethan’s expression softens but he does not relent. “you told me not to let you bail, baby. c’mon, let’s get you something to drink.”

blood. so much blood—coating your hands, soaking your dress, filling your senses and splattering on the floor.

“baby? bab— hey, hey, it’s okay.”

ethan’s face blurs and it feels like you’re swaying even though you know your not. it all happened so fast, the room was spinning so fast, everything was moving so fucking fast.

“hey! can you hear me?” ethan again. god, he sounds so worried. you hope he’s not too worried.

you managed to focus your eyes and see that he’s moved you to his lap, his hands covering your own as they press onto your wound. something is soft under your fingers now—his flannel, you realize—and in the same moment you realized your blood is soaking through that too.

“yeah,” you whisper. “i hear you…”

“the ambulance is on its way, just stay awake.”

“where— where’d he go?” you slurred. whether it was from the blood loss, the alcohol, or the panic, you weren’t sure.

ethan shakes his head, pressing down harder on your stomach as he saw your eyes lose focus again. “he ran away, he’s gone, you’re okay.”

she shut your eyes tight as the room started to swim again. “said you… coming…” you managed to murmur, though the blood that had snuck past your lips wasn’t doing any favors for your speech.

“what?”

“he said you had it coming.”

“what do you want to drink?” ethan asked softly, one hand gripping hip as he plucked too red solo cups off of the tower that say on the drink table.

you hummed doubtfully. “i don’t know if i want to drink tonight. maybe just a diet coke?”

“fine by me.” he presses a kiss to your temple before pulling away, pouring two cans of diet coke into two cups.

“you can drink,” you said quickly, suddenly worried you were ruining his night. you knew ethan was never much of a party person but you wouldn’t blame him for wanting to get out of the house, away from you, away from all your trauma and problems and—

“i don’t mind staying sober,” he reassures. “plus, when we’re back at my apartment, we can drink wine, watch a funny movie, and make out until we fall asleep.”

you smile, leaning into him and taking your soda from his hand. “that sounds nice.”

ethan hummed, kissing the top of your head as it rests against his chest. “40 minutes.”

you bite your lip, looking up at him, wrapping an arm around his middle. “what about 30 if i make it worth your while?”

“i’m not some slut,” he chides, a smile creeping on his face.

“i believe i’d be the slut in that situation.”

“oh really—”

“well if it isn’t mr. and mrs. landry!”

and there’s chad. more specifically, a super excited, super loud, and super drunk chat.

“hey, man,” ethan greets, pulling away from you to give his roommate a one armed hug and a pat on the back.

“what are you guys doing here?” chad asked, pulling you in for a hug with just as much excitement. “you haven’t come to one of these all year.”

“yeah, we’re not here for long,” you said, forcing a smile that chad was too drunk to call out. “just wanted to say hello and grab a drink.”

chad nods, head bobbing to the deafening beat of the music playing. he smiled at you, that broad, blinding smile and leaned in to hug you again, holding you against him for a moment longer.

“i’m proud of you,” he slurred whispered, patting you on the back hard enough to make you cough up some phlegm. “you’re doing really good.”

“thanks, chad.” you laughed as you pulled apart. “now go back to partying! your fans must be missing you dearly.”

he laughs, though it sounds more like a giggle and shouts something unintelligible at you as he walks back into the crowd. once he’s gone, your shoulders slump a bit again, leaning against ethan once more.

“i socialized, i’m done, we can leave now.”

“nope. we still have 35 minutes left.”

“what are you, the timekeeper?” you grumbled, feet feeling like cement blocks as he guided you out into the common area, away from the dance floor but still plenty claustrophobic.

“well, i did start a timer when we got out of the car, so yeah,” he quipped, “i am.”

“you’re insufferable.”

“you love me.”

“mhm.”

[poeticallyspiteful]

PATTERN BANNERS | galaxy.

okey, I love this set so much, I’m so happy with it. I love all things space and stars and galaxy related. I have many colour sets coming so keep an eye out for those ! i really like what i did here ahahahah. 🤍🤍🤍

colours : 001 / 002 / 003 / 004 / 005 / 006 / 007 / 008 / 009

feel free to use; please like, reblog, and credit 〜

support me through ko-fi | more dividers →

[poeticallyspiteful]

[poeticallyspiteful]

Heyy! I’m absolutely obsessed with anything Charlie Weasley atm and when I saw that you were taking requests I knew had to ask for him! I’ll give you creative freedom but pls Charlie! Thank you so so so so much!❤️

reflecting light

charlie weasley x reader

angst / fluff?

cw: mentions of war and death, charlie threatens someone, minimally proof-read

summary: the war has destroyed everything—you could use some light.

notes: i love gilmore girls and wanted to write something more poetic sounding so here it is, thank you so much for the request and i hope you enjoy this piece <33

now that I've worn out

i’ve worn out the world

i’m on my knees in fascination

bill and fleurs wedding was beautiful. it was a bit solemn—melancholy, some might say— given the less than optimal circumstances surrounding it. but for one night, all those in attendance got to play pretend. act as though their lives were not in danger and like a war was not raging all around them.

but as much as you loved your friends, you were having a hard time pretending. the night itself was beautiful. the moon shown down, gorgeous and waning, and made the whole tent look as if it were glowing, but you couldn’t bring yourself to glow with it.

you sat at your table, sipping your champagne, looking around at the guests. having known the weasley’s since you were eleven years old, it was hardly the first time you’d met most of these people, but you couldn’t help but worry that this would be the last.

looking through the night

and the moon's never seen me before

but i’m reflecting light

“hey,” tonks said, snapping you out of that dark place with a gentle hand on your knee. you returned her warm smile as best as you could. “don’t get in your head now. everything’s alright.”

you took a shakey breath and nodded, and took a larger gulp of your champagne to wash those horrid thoughts down. “yeah, yeah of course.”

tonks smiled sadly, standing up and making her way back over to her parents. you looked down to your dress and swore it looked right back, dauntingly pretty. you wanted to tell it to stop, to be dull and sad just like everything else.

i rode the pain down

got off and looked up

looked into your eyes

you felt someone approaching you, and kept your head down, hoping the stranger would go away. however, the presence paused just behind you, looming over you like an umbrella from the rain.

“you haven’t danced.”

you turned around, chest suddenly feeling a tad bit lighter than it had before; charlie stood over you, clever smile on his lips. his already crooked tie had gone loosened but he still look as stunning as ever.

“everything seems far too pretty for the world right now,” you stated, tossing back the last of your champagne. “i just wanna sink into the ground and stay there forever.”

charlie’s jaw ticked and he stuck out his hand expectantly, eyes never leaving your face. “alright then, darling, but only if you dance with me first.”

the lost open windows

all around

my dark heart lit up the skies

suddenly the world around you felt gentle, like everything had melted away except for you and him. it felt as if the people around you had shifted into simple silhouettes and quiet murmurs when you took his hand.

he led you across the yard, and through your slippers, you felt bump and imperfection in the grass that you’d passed over every summer at the burrow. the very same spots you’d laid with him, staring at the stars.

the spot where you’d held him as he cried after his parents had reacted poorly to the job offer in romania— the spot where he asked you to go with him, and the spot where you’d agreed.

now that I've worn out

i've worn out the world

i'm on my knees in fascination

charlie brought you to a halt, carefully turning you to face him and once again, you only saw him. only smelled him, the strong scent of cedar and cinnamon on his skin. you only felt him as he pulled you closer by the waist.

slowly, you started swaying, soft and slow. awkwardly, at first, as you found your footing, but soon enough, it felt like you were floating. the sight, smell, and the feel of him consumed you— wrapped you up in massive, feathered wings and lifted you off the ground.

you rested your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, slow and steady. everything felt slow, like each step took a century, or more like you were not even stepping at all. thoughts of blood and bruises were washed away with a rushing wave of nothing and everything all at once.

looking through the night

and the moon's never seen me before

but i'm reflecting light

the dark, weightless fabric of your dress seemed to glow under the moon the way the sky does when illuminated by stars. you felt charlie rest his chin a top your head, softly humming to the tune of the music.

you remembered the day you first met him, during your first year at hogwarts. you’d stumbled onto the train late, and the first compartment you found held a small, red headed boy and his older brother.

give up the ground

under your feet

hold on to nothing for good

your shoe laces were untied, your jeans were too big in some places and too tight in others, and your suitcase was bursting at the seams; you were the image of an awkward eleven year old.

as you struggled onto the train, face hot with embarrassment from being undoubtedly the last one to climb on, your eyes searched for an empty seat. the first ten or so compartments were full, and you were starting to get nervous— what if you couldn’t find a seat? you could feel the eyes on you and swore you heard some snickers leaking through the sliding doors. oh god, everyone was judging you, weren’t they? what a great start to your year.

finally, about five more compartments down, two carrot top heads caught your eye. ‘thank the gods’, you thought, ‘my saviors’. before you knew it, you were yanking the door open and two sets of emerald green eyes were staring back at you.

“is this seat taken?”

the younger boy smiled back at you. “nope.”

turn and run at the mean dogs

chasing you

stand-alone and misunderstood

“hey!”

you kept your head down, holding your books close to your chest— you’d left the greenhouse a little later than intended, and were praying you wouldn’t run into anyone.

you weren’t that lucky though.

“hey!” the ravenclaw boy—peter, you thought his name was—shouted again.

against your better judgment, you turned around, coming eye to mouth with crooked yellow teeth and rancid breath. fuck, you really should not have helped charlie pull that prank on him last year.

“listen, mudblood,” peter seethed. “you better—”

you barely peeked the top of a red mess of hair before peter was yanked back by his collar and all but shoved to the ground.

“fuck off.”

peter scoffed. “you think you scare me?”

charlie’s jaw clenched. “did you not here me? leave her alone, or i swear, i will hang you by the ankles in the middle of the great hall as a charms exercise for the first years. got that?”

“alright, alright!” peter squeaked, stumbling to his feet and limping away and cursing under his breath.

as charlie turned back to you, you couldn’t help but laugh, smacking his chest. he smiled down at you, his cheeks rosy— from the cold or your proximity, neither of you were sure.

“great timing,” you giggled as he hooked his arm through yours, starting back to the castle. “how’d you know i was in trouble?”

charlie shrugged. “i always know when you need me.”

now that i’ve worn out

i’ve worn out the world

i’m on my knees in fascination

but you weren't kids anymore. dumbledore was dead, a war was raging, and as much as you wanted to deny it, nobody was safe.

"i'm scared," you whispered, head still resting on charlie's chest.

charlie kept his chin atop your head. "i know."

looking through the night

and the moon's never seen me before

but i’m reflecting light

[poeticallyspiteful]

Winter's Chance

Summary: It's Rafe's turn to have your son for the weekend, but it seems the weather wants you to spend the holidays together.

--Finally some Baby Daddy Rafe

With delicate rubs to your son's tummy, you desperately tried to get him to calm down with soft pleads and overeager soothing. He'd been fussing all day, so much that you'd called the doctor to make sure everything was okay.

They simply reassured you that it may just be a prolonged stage of fussiness. Most babies grow out of it around 4 months which is exactly where Max had just reached a few weeks ago.

Just when he was finally beginning to calm for a moment your ears are filled with the chime of your doorbell. Max picks up his crying as if he had never stopped. Your eyes roll, already knowing who is on the other side of the door.

You gently scooped him up to rest over your shoulder on top of the little binkie you tend to have thrown over your shoulder at all times for moments like this. He was cute, but the spit-up was never pretty and you were always prepared.

Opening the door from a distance you weren't expecting to see Rafe step in partially covered in snow. It distracted you momentarily before Max's cries cut through the shock.

"I know, I know." You whine, gently rocking him, backing away from the cold air that swept against your feet. "Hurry up, and close the door." His eyes roll, "Hello to you too." He closes the door and stomps off the snow from his boots before stepping out of them and hanging up his jacket.

"Woah, woah, what are you doing? This is just a pick-up, then you can have fun trying to calm him down at your place." Rafe stands still, his thumb gesturing to the door behind him, "You haven't seen the news, have you? They're closing the roads, so we're snowed in. The only reason I made it here is because of the suspension on my truck."

Your face turns sour and Max continues to cry.

"So why did you come in the first place if you knew you wouldn't be able to make it back?" He ignores your question for the most part, "Relax, baby. As excited as you are to see me, I didn't come for you. I came for my son. There he is," Rafe's expression lights up as he reaches for Max and takes him out of your hold.

"Rafe you can't just take him and expect him to calm-"

For the first time in seven hours, silence consumes the room. No more screams and tearful cries. "You've got to be fucking with me," You don't say it loudly, but Rafe still hears.

"Guess he was just missin' his daddy, huh? Isn't that right, Max?" Rafe's tone is playful as he pokes at Max's tummy which elicits tiny giggles and the brightest smile you'd seen all day.

You walk away, headed towards the kitchen. Not sure why you were moving so fast, Rafe was hot on your heels. "It's not your fault, it's probably just been a long day-" He finally shuts the fuck up with his smug remarks when he hears a soft cry, "Y/n," Your name rolls off his tongue, tender and sweet. "Baby, what's wrong?" Effortlessly, he supports Max with one hand while he reaches to turn you so you're facing him.

Your eyes are filled with tears, lips quivering ever so slightly and he knows what's coming. He's seen you like this more times than he can count. He takes you under his arm, your cheek pressed to his chest and you break down, muttering into the fabric of his hoodie.

He comforts you with a big hand rubbing your back, soothing you the way he learned from those parenting books that he swear he never read. "It's so hard, Rafe." Is all you manage to say through broken cries for the first five minutes before you're pushing off him, expression more angry than upset? "He was crying all day, and the second you walk in, he's perfectly fine."

Rafe's lips frown, puzzled. "And that's a bad thing?--"

"Yes! Why do you get to be Superman?!" Earlier, the sound of a pin drop would disturb Max from calming, but now even your exclamations left him unfazed, as long as he was in Rafe's arms he was unbothered.

As a matter of fact, with a second glance, you notice he'd actually fallen asleep. Just Perfect. Another win for Superman.

He chuckles, leading you both to have a seat on the couch. Your son sleeping soundly in his father's hold. "Well, I think I've got the abs for it." His shit-eating grin spreads across his lips.

"You try carrying a baby in your stomach for nine months, and you tell me if you still have abs after." Subtly, his tongue wets his lips at the memory, "All I remember is how good you looked pregnant. Shit, wanna do it again?" You'd never wanted to hurt someone so badly.

"You're lucky you're holding my son." He scoffs, leaning in slightly as if to speak away from the baby. "I seem to remember the two of us going half on the conception, and a few times after that." You air-swat him and stand, making your way for the stairs. "I'm going to take a nap."

The hours flew by as you finally had your first uninterrupted nap in what felt like years. By the time you woke up, the sun was long gone, and there was a thick layer of fresh snow sitting on your window pane. You headed downstairs and stopped at the bottom of the steps to appreciate the view.

Nothing melted you quite like the sight of Rafe taking care of Max. You hated to admit it, but he was a good dad. A really good one. Hot, too. Rafe held the bottle to Max's lips, murmuring some undistinguishable babbles with a soft smile. Surely speaking a language only the two of them can understand.

"I hope you warmed the bottle before you gave it to him." You say, and he finally notices you standing by the stairs, stalking your way over and sitting beside him.He ignores you, knowing that you're just trying to get under his skin. "You look well rested." He remarks and you sigh with a soft nod. "Yeah, I am actually." He grins to himself, "Must be a miracle to sleep well on that cheap-ass mattress you got up there."

"Sorry, we can't all have premium mattresses." Rafe pulls the bottle back once he realizes Max has had his fill. "Y'know my money is your money right? I give you ten thousand a month but everything I have is yours, too." Standing him up on his lap first, Rafe holds the baby over his shoulder, gently patting his back.

"Well, I don't need to live in a fifteen thousand sq ft house to be happy unlike you." He shakes his head slowly, his gaze falls on you, somber. "I seem happy to you? I don't give a shit how big my place is. It's always going to be empty without you two in it... " He trails off, alluding there's more to come.

"Rafe.. What are you saying?"

"Move in with me, again." Your head shakes before you sputter profuse denials, "No, Rafe, we can't we tried that before remember? We don't get along. Technically, we're not even together." The conversation is briefly interrupted by a small gurgled burp on Max's behalf.

Rafe leans down to place a drowsy Max in his rocker in front of the couch before sitting back up. "Things were different then, we were eighteen. I can't do the back-and-forth anymore. Don't you wanna wake up in the morning, see that Max is taken care of and I'm making you breakfast, then we go back to bed and I take care of you? Huh?" He hums, his voice igniting sparks along the length of your neck as he nosed along it.

"Rafe.." your voice is shaky, feeling the heat from the discussion.

"Whadd'ya say, hm?" You reflect, having Rafe stay with you today, in just a few short hours you'd been able to take a break, he held you when you cried like he always did. You'd hardly even fought. Though that was no surprise, the two of you fought considerably less ever since Max came into the picture.

"Okay, yes." You can feel the lines from his smile stretch against your jaw just before he begins to pepper kisses on your cheek. "Y'know, we made the world's cutest baby ever right?" You smile, both your gazes focused on the little one before you.

"He's got your eyes, for sure." Rafe states and you giggle, "You're just saying that because they're brown." He sits up straight, heartfully disagreeing. "I'm not. They're the same eyes that I fell in love with when I first laid my eyes on you, and the same ones that humbled me when they looked up at me for the first time in the NICU."

His words were touching. You're seeing a whole new side of him. Not the usually hot-headed and impulsive man you were used to. This one was sweeter, softer, and more sincere.

You reeled him in for the first kiss, his lips soft as they pressed against yours, his hands confidently holding you at your waist. "Ah, I see you're taking me up on my previous offer. Let's go for a girl this time, yeah?" He grins, and you pinch him.

[poeticallyspiteful]

the way things change (prologue)

ethan landry x reader

angst-y??

cw: not canon compliant, like at all, torture, stabbing, blood, broken bones, guns, murder, torture, a lot of blood, use of ‘slut’, so much is happening here, possibly really bad writing

summary: your sweet, loving, perfect boyfriend comes from a family of killers—and here’s hoping they don’t kill you.

notes: so lowkey i wanna make a mini series about ethan landry and his girlfriend after the ghost face attacks (wayne and quinn were the only killers and they tried to frame ethan because the plot 🥰) so here’s a lil prologue!!

you were dying. like actually fucking dying.

you really thought you had more time than this; like, at least another fifty or so before you died in a very unspectacular, normal way.

but here you were, dying at 18 years old in one of the most cinematically stunning ways known to man: with a knife in your back, clawing your way through a puddle of your own blood to save your boyfriend’s life.

what a lovely tragedy.

just as your bloodied, shaking fingers nearly reached the gun on the floor, a black boot kicked it out of the way.

“not so fast, bitch.” quinn stomped on your hand and you bit back a sob as you felt more than a few bones crush; ouch. “you’re not getting away alive. you are a lesson for my traitor of a brother.”

quinn picked up the gun and stalked away, over to where ethan sat. oh, poor ethan: tied to a chair, shaking with tears, screaming through a gag.

in true horrifying fashion, quinn had made him watch for hours as she tortured you: cuts, burns, bruises, broken bones—she really gave you the works. ethan’s voice was raw from screaming, begging her to stop, and eventually, she did.

then she stabbed you.

which wasn’t great.

you swallowed, looking at your surroundings, searching for literally anything that you could beat her over the head with. but the longer you kept your head up, the more the room spun and blurred.

you almost gave up—after all, you were so tired, and maybe if you just closed your eyes, you’d pass on relatively peacefully. well, more peaceful than if you let quinn stab you again.

that’s when you came to an unfortunate realization.

“oh fuck me,” you muttered, whining quietly as you forced yourself to reach behind you and wrench the knife out with a suppressed gasp.

sweet lord almighty, it almost felt worse coming out than going in.

your eyes shot over to quinn, who was too busy with her villain monologue to hear your whimpers, or the sound of your nails scrapping on the wall as you struggled for leverage. you held the knife with your least injured hand, pulled yourself to your feet and carefully, quietly, limped up behind her.

“and now your precious little slut is dead too,” quinn spat, wiping a drop of blood off of her cheek as if it was a bead of sweat.

you wondered if that was your blood.

or tara’s.

or sam’s.

or chad’s—

without a moments hesitation, you raised the knife in fury, driving it into her back with as much force as you could. as she choked gasping for air, you yanked it out and watched her fall to the floor.

“surprise.”

[poeticallyspiteful]

just reread this and halfway through was like “oooh, i like that line”.

yeah bitch. u wrote it.

hi!!! new follower here but could u pls write something for rafe where reader is not having the greatest day (sick, period, just plain sad etc etc) and rafe doesn’t really know how to make her feel better, so he goes and buys a plethora of gifts for her ranging from flowers to chocolate to (maybe) lingerie etc etc etc u get the vibes

*maybe reader sees his google history and it’s him looking up what to get someone when they feel like crap hehehehe*

all for you

rafe cameron x reader

fluff

cw: the common cold, one sexual innuendo/joke, mentions of a hypothetical meth lab…anyways, ooc rafe (as always??)

summary: reader feels sick, rafe don’t like it, yadayadayada they very cute and stuff <33

notes: HEY BABE, thank you so much for the request and i rlly hope you enjoy!! this was so fun to write and i think it turned out real cute <33

16+ please!!

“rafe, what—”

“shush.”

rafe kicked the door shut behind him, arms too full of shit to use his hands. four different types of soup sat piping in a paper bag hanging off his right hand, picked up fresh from ‘the wreck’, while three boxes of the softest kleenex known to man sat in a plastic back wrapped around the same wrist. this load was nothing compared to his left arm, which supported two overflowing bags full of goodies and medicine to help mend your ailment:

the absolute terrifying blight of the common cold.

but to rafe, this was enough to warrant a soup kitchen delivered to your door. it’s not like the extravagance was a burden on him anyways; he could’ve bought every pint of ice cream and every bag of cough drops in the store and it wouldn’t make a dent in his back account.

“rafe, honey,” you laughed, wiping under your stuffed up nose. “i just asked for cough drops. what’d you do, looks ‘em up on web md?”

rafes eyes went wide, and he looked at you like bewildered deer in headlights. “h-how’d you know that?”

you snorted. “it was a joke, but the reality of it is much more funny.”

“mhm,” rafe hummed sarcastically, tossing three flavors of cough drops onto the comforter. “and for the record, i got your cough drops; the top brand for sinus and cough relief, according to google.”

you had called rafe at 9:30 that morning, asking him to bring you some cough drops as your throat was hurting, and your roommate had left for a vacation two days ago. and of course, rafe being the doting, overprotective, boyfriend he was, was tripping over his own feet to get to his car.

you gave a lopsided frown. “this is too much, baby, you don’t have to spend all this money on me.”

rafe shot you a look somewhere between amusement and concern. scoffing, he started organizing his purchases on the bench by the foot of your bed.

“you should really stop saying things you know aren’t true,” he chided, carefully pulling open a cup of chicken and rice soup and stirring. he looked up at you through hooded eyes and grinned at the sheepish smile on your face. “i’ll spend as much money on my girl as i please.”

“well you please a lot.”

rafe laughed softly, towering over you as he lifted the spoon to your lips, gentle as ever. “do i now?”

you felt your cheeks burn, and not just because of the soup, which you accepted gratefully.

“thank you,” you mumbled, face getting impossibly hotter as he sat down on the bed and continued to spoon feed you, brushing hair off of your forehead all the while.

“you’re very welcome, sweet girl,” he whispered, voice still raspy from sleep in a way that made your stomach erupt in a swarm of warmth.

hesitantly, you leaned into his chest, accepting his arm around your shoulders and the kisses he left in his path up your jaw and the side of you face. with one final brush of his lips on your hairline, he spoke.

“i’ve got lots more soup, and some snacks, ice cream, enough drugs to start a meth lab—”

“rafe!” you giggled, but he shushed you, laughter bubbling in him just the same.

“it’s all good, lovely, no underground drug rings here,” he reassured, entire body loosening as it settled into his happy space; you.“‘s all for you.”

all for you.

[poeticallyspiteful]

Hi hi can you do a Luke x reader fic where Luke falls in love with a human reader like one day he had to go out from camp and sees her and it’s like love at first sight and so some days he visits her but then disappears for like what seems like months and reader gets tired of it cause she feels like she barely knows anything about him and confronts him abt it but he doesn’t know what to say cause he can’t tell her he’s a Demi god?? Can you make it super angsty and you can decide how it ends sorry if this was confusing🙈🙈

soulmates, right?

luke castellan x reader

angst

summary: you and luke are supposed to be soulmates, but for demigods, good things can never last— or live.

cw: sad ending, kinda graphic descriptors, vomit, mentions of unintentional self harm?? (scratching and bruising in one’s sleep), so much angst dude

notes: so i went MIA and left this in my drafts cause i thought it was bad but i guess it’s not actually that bad. enjoy 💗

“i don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

luke’s heart stopped— stopped beating, stopped pumping blood, stopped keeping the rest of his organs functioning as he felt himself shut down.

“w-what?” he stammered, clambering towards his girlfriend, his love, his everything, on a hardly working pair shaking legs.

she sat— beautifully, might he add— on the edge of the cliff where he’d first met her and she looked just as perfect as she did back then.

wild flowers gathered around her, so carefully and which such individual purpose that if he didn’t know better, he’d think she was a daughter of demeter herself.

as much as he hated being a half blood, he found himself wishing she somehow, secretly was.

that would make everything so much easier.

“you’re hiding things from me.” she didn’t even seem fazed yet every word you said, every second she spent looking out at the forest instead of at him, was like a knife to the gut. “you haven’t been honest with me, luke, and i don’t like liars.”

luke felt his jaw creak from the way it hung on its hinges, and he found his knees finally giving in as he sunk to the ground just behind her.

“no, no, no, i’m sorry,” he whispered, resisting the urge to reach out and touch her hand. “please, darling, you have to believe me. i’ve never wanted to keep anything from you, i don’t have a choice.”

because how could he ever explain it?

she’d think he was insane.

son of hermes.

greek gods and monsters and dead girls turned into trees.

she’d think he was absolutely out of his mind.

she laughed softly, shaking her head. “i really, really wish i believed you.”

she pulled yourself up off the ground on slow and steady feel and before he could think about it, luke was wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her back towards him like a life raft in a stormy sea. he sat on his knees, cheek pressed against the soft flesh of her stomach, his tears slowly bleeding into her shirt.

“i’m sorry, i’m so, so sorry,” he whispered, clinging to her for dear life because for all he knew, this was the last time he’d ever see her. the last time he’d get to touch her or hold her or hear her voice.

but that wasn’t right. no, she was his soulmate, and weren’t soulmates supposed to stay together forever?

“luke, please let me go.”

he felt his gut wrench, like something was trying to crawl out of him, and he choked on a sob.

“please, i’m so sorry,” he begged, holding onto her tighter as he felt her shift. he knew he should let her go— that it was her choice and that he deserved this— but he couldn’t help but hold on just a moment longer.

he wanted to memorize the way she felt too soft and pure for the world, the way she smelled, like honey and fruit. he wanted to memorize every part of she before he lost it all.

“luke—”

“i love you,” he blurted out, finally looking up and trying desperately to find her gaze. “i know i am so wrong to keep things from you and i’m sorry, i’m so sorry, but i love you more than i’ve ever loved anything and i can’t just let you go.”

when she fell silent, it almost gave luke hope— that was until he felt her hands firm on his shoulders, pushing him firmly, yet carefully, off of her.

“i’m sorry, luke, but i can’t see you anymore.”

luke didn’t leave his cabin for three weeks after that lovely afternoon, when she ripped his heart right out of his chest and threw it off that cliff.

he sat on the cliffside until the sunset, and he cried and cried and cried until the sky started crying back at him, pelting rain drops mixing with the tears. it was almost cinematic— something he might have appreciated if he wasn’t so broken.

he felt a pain in his chest that he’d never experienced before, and while he had to assume is was from the gaping hole she’d left behind after her sudden departure, it was unlike anything he’d ever imagined before.

finally, with swollen eyes and a soar throat, he stumbled back to camp half blood and into the hermes cabin. he fell into his bed and laid there, motionless, until the morning came.

over the next three weeks, he only got up to use the bathroom, choke down some food, or to give chris a short explanation of his behavior.

“there’s a mortal girl,” he muttered, struggling to swallow a bite of porridge. “i love her— she left me— and i’m here.”

chris sympathized with his brother, but he learned very quickly that luke did not want to talk about her.

so he didn’t.

until a month later.

“luke, buddy— i have to tell you something,” christ said lowly, looking oddly grey for such a nice day.

luke hummed, absentmindedly folding laundry, seeming completely devoid of life.

“they— uh— they found a mortal girl in the woods this morning,” chris whispered, approaching him slowly from behind like a rabid animal he was scared to startle for fear of being attacked. “they said she must have been sneaking around the camp’s border and some sort of monster got her.”

lukes hands stopped, the orange camp shirt sitting limply in his hands.

“no,” he replied, sternly, refusing to glance up at his brother. he just stared at the shirt, burning holes in the fabric with his eyes, like maybe if he burnt the shirt it would burn the half blood out of him too. “that’s—that’s impossible, why would a mortal girl be snooping around that close to camp?”

he knew why. of course he knew why, he just didn’t want to say it.

“she… she had something in her hand,” chris choked out, reaching out with a shaking fist, and dropping something in lukes lap.

if luke thought he’d given up before, that was nothing compared to what he felt when his camp necklace, which he’d given to you 9 months prior, fell back into his possession with a rattle.

he couldn’t even check to see if those spots were dirt or dried blood before he felt his vision growing fuzzy, and suddenly, he was scrambling off of his bed and to the nearest trash can.

he hurled up the breakfast he’d barely even eaten, but his body kept trying to reject something that was inside of him. he thought he might actually puke up his guts.

you were trying to find him.

you must’ve followed him.

right to the camp.

right to your death.

it was all his fault.

“luke, you have to breath.” it was chris at his shoulder, wrapping a strong arm around his middle to pull him back to the bed. luke didn’t even realize he’d been crying until he saw chris grabbing the tissues and sitting down across from him on the bed.

“she can’t— it can’t be her,” luke whispered, glancing between chris and the bloodied necklace. “she can’t be gone, chris. she can’t— she— i love her, she can’t leave me.”

chris bit his tongue so hard he thought it would bleed; he couldn’t tell him. he couldn’t look his brother in the eye and tell him a truth that would result in an unraveling that would never end.

he couldn’t bare the news that left luke a torn up heap of flesh and bone with no heart or soul.

he couldn’t bring down his brothers world with just a few words about a girl that he had never even met alive, that he couldn’t ever grieve the way luke undoubtedly will.

he couldn’t.

but he did.

“she’s gone, luke.”

another month later, luke started having strange dreams.

for the longest time after her death, luke had nightmares about the monster that killed her; they said it was difficult to say, since her body was mangled and worn by the elements, so his mind just made up a new one every time.

a minotaur.

a fury.

a hellhound.

a harpy.

his father— that one had some kick to it.

every night was another rerun of her death.

the only part that was never rewritten was that luke was watching, helpless at the sidelines, unable to save her. he screamed, he cried, fought so hard against invisible restraints that he’d wake up with scratches and bruisers from head to toe, but it never changed.

you died, he watched, and he woke up.

that was, until, one night when a deep voice broke through her screams and his cries, and the forest disappeared in a sea of darkness.

there was only him.

and that deep, looming voice.