#Scraping around the Web

[nitunio]

I think that if a person knows that something was made using trained on unethically sourced data AI. And still uses it/likes it/supports it/defends it.

Then said person should stop "being mad" when their data is used to train AI without consent.

[hanasnx]

“ BETTER FIND A MOP, IT’S GETTIN’ STICKY IN THIS BITCH ” — peter parker.

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ NOTES: marvel rivals chad peter parker w yuri lowenthal’s legendary voice. a recipe for success. also this wouldn't be possible without this anon. WARNINGS: fem reader ノ established relationship ノ dirty talk ノ explicit sexual content ノ p in v ノ finger sucking ノ biting ノ long cock peter agenda ノ suit + mask sex but mask comes off halfway thru so you can see his pretty face <3

“Yeah? Mmph—you like that—hm—baby?” PETER PARKER speaks between his sheathes, evidently getting lost in the feeling of you wrapped around him. So much so that dirty talk for this silver tongue is interrupted by his own unfocus. It blurs in and out from the overload of sensation between his legs. You can’t respond, brows furrowing as he wetly slithers in and out of you, the head of him brushing that spongy spot inside you every time he bottoms out.

You try your best, murmuring a weak yet eager, “Mhm, mhm,” Nodding your head even while his fingers are hooked on your lower jaw over your chin.

“Couldn’t wait, huh?” Peter asks rhetorically, a slight snicker sprinkled in as he watches you with as much awe as a mask can have. “Was like I was ambushed.” he muses, reminiscing over his entrance met with such welcoming open legs. His cock bucks in at the memory, and you cry out through your occupied mouth. The knuckles between your teeth get a squeeze, a nip, and he releases a burst of air. “Trying to bite me, honey?” The tone conveys a sense of disbelief but it’s pleasantly surprised, and his pace quickens. Choked moans shoot out of you as he fucks into you, his body weight pinning you down while your suspended legs bob from the movement. Your lips enclose apologetically over his gloved fingers, the wet felt fabric is foreign against your tongue when you circle around them. In a bout of curiosity, your tip traces the embossed texture of the web design around his knuckle, maintaining eye contact with his mask while you do it.

Your cheeks hollow out, sucking on his two fingers and he groans from low in his throat. It’s the kind of purr that sends a shudder down your spine, eyes rolling back as he slots in your lulling body. The sheer length of him causes an ache inside your core that arches your back, clutching onto the sheets for purchase as you brace the sharp pain for the brain-melting feeling of pulling out only to fuck back in. His other hand comes to hook under the hem of his mask, peeling it off of him, and his brown hair explodes out in an endearing mess. You can finally see that crooked grin.

He pivots your head for you by your mouth, resting his wrist on the mattress to hover over you properly. Faithfully, you keep those fingers in, and he rewards you by shoving them in deeper, the tips of them making you lurch with a gag. Once again, he reacts audibly in euphoric relief like he was waiting for you to do that. “Baby.” he says in that voice, and it’s like a prize. You erupt in full-body tingles, curling your toes as he openly mouths at your neck. The pad of his tongue flattens against your pulse point, and ends it in a hard bite, scraping his teeth against your skin. You keen, that coil in your belly going taut.

Drool seeps out of the corner of your mouth while you desperately suck his spit-soaked glove, pitiful whimperings spilling out of you while he fucks you into the mattress.

[syluses]

father figure

sylus x female reader

he takes you in, he feeds you, he gives you a home when the world around you can no longer make sense of the word- and yet you’re just as much of a grounding force in his life. when the frenzy hits, though, he can’t make heads or tails of anything; all he knows is that you’re a pretty, fleshy thing and he aches to sample it.

content smut/nsfw, daddy kink, dilf/guardian! sylus, so by a stretch it can be pseudocest, noncon, soft! sylus but turns into frenzied! sylus, yandere themes, piv, rough handling, loss of virginity, some angst because of guilt/disillusion, codependency, age gap (but both parties are 18+), biting, dark content, almost 10k words

sidenote i could only resist the catch-22 sylus agenda for so long. it’s not fully canon compliant but its heavily based around it. so yes sylus has his iconic mullet and he’s a lil baby crashout in this. also no this isnt even the sylus bday fic i had in mind but if i dont get that one out in time then this will be the substitute 😣 anways, i hope u enjoy my friends <3

You don’t remember much, growing up. Beyond him, at least.

The world goes to shit with the predators and your parents fade out of the equation- and you’re left alone for much of your youth until an ominous man comes along and takes you under his wing— but only reluctantly.

For a while afterward, you think he still grudges you for the day you, in one way or another, managed to fall under his custody, becoming a knot in his neat web of plans and purposes. Deep down, you got the feeling that he didn’t need you as much as you did him; despite his choosing to keep you around, it was likely more out of guilt than any genuine affection- but you’d decided that was okay.

He saved your life, pulled you from the fire before you could really feel its burn, and you’d be the last to make complaint for your circumstances.

There’d be no circumstances if not for him.

But he tenderizes. It turns to be an open thing, his fondness.

He takes you in when you’re fifteen. Since then- throughout the course of around six years, he’s become softer. Less ambiguous to you. There’s things he keeps under wraps and always will despite the harmless pestering on your end (like questions regarding his work, the silhouettes that trail you both constantly— and the curious glances thrown to the blood on his collar after he returns late in the night). But he’s not longer as obscure to you, his person.

Trust blooms in the parts of you where an impoverished lifestyle of scraping by carved out gaps. And you’re used to hiding- that’s not much different now- but instead of diving for shady alleyways, you find refuge in him.

He’s dangerous. That was established early on; since the first moment you met him, really, knelt before him in fear after grabbing his pant leg for help (an action he mistook for a foolish attempt at pickpocketing), that was obvious.

He’s threatening.

Never to you. Not now.

Sylus is a man of impressive decorum and somehow all the blood coating his hands doesn’t take away from his class— he extends those hands to you, callouses and all, and gives you a patient look as if he’s expecting you to take them.

At sixteen you start calling him dad (more of an accident than anything else- it’s not a conscious thing that compels you to view him as something paternal).

He doesn’t object to it.

Things fall into place in weird ways.

When all the pieces settle, you find yourself looking at a semblance of a home— a safe place that the self-proclaimed beast curated with his own paws through painstaking efforts. (Whether you were fully cognizant of them or not didn’t matter: he tried his damnedest to be what you needed, and could only hope it was enough.)

The two of you are always on the move. He barges into your room panting at night and tells you to hurry and pack a bag, or just outright scoops you up in his arms and tucks you into the car’s backseat seconds before you hear the tires revving off. Your surroundings are perpetually changing around you and yet he remains the same; a citadel, a rock in your life.

Sylus provides an air of safety. Despite it all, the abrupt ‘field trips’ (at least, that’s what he called them when you were a bit younger) taken to ward enemies off your location, the bullets that fling by your periphery on furtive nights out and the red threads that coil behind him like talons- destroying anything before it can so much as harm a hair on your pretty head- you feel safe with him.

Predator or not- he’s good to you, a lighthouse fixed firmly amidst rolling smog and cyclones.

You can’t count a time he’s lost control or been unprepared for a frenzy, and he’s taken the proper precautions to keep you from him whenever he suspects one is coming on. The broken activator just solidifies his vigilance. And he’s instructed you plenty on what to do if he does lose it, God forbid, albeit your agreement to it was utterly uneasy.

He figures he’ll spare you the little horror show, he’d joked just to smooth out the worried crinkle in your brow.

Yet- Figures he’ll spare you your life, is what he doesn’t say, despite it being a shared thought between you both.

He teaches you how to wield a gun early on.

You’d told him you didn’t wanna use it, but something as trivial as guilt had no place in Linkon as it collapsed into decadence and carnal ruin. And something like sympathy, he’d also added, was stupid. An invitation to get yourself killed.

(Silly, that. Silly and hypocritical of the man who takes pity on runts.)

Conversation is kept at a minimum at first, and clipped, but he sprinkles in tips and tricks at self preservation— life hacks in the most literal sense— and he keeps an eye on you. Watching always. He makes sure you’re holding up well and even lets you hold down the fort while he’s gone doing God knows what. It feels like a privilege when he entrusts things to you, no matter how seemingly small.

Sylus is special to you. You love him as a teacher, a protector, a warm chest to snuggle up to on the sofa when you’re restless and can’t sleep but you know he’s downstairs with a cushion waiting—

You love him as a father, too.

Not everything about him is clear to you, though... You learn many things but one you have more difficulty understanding is the way he perceives you.

You don’t know if he loves you as a daughter, or a welcome nuisance, or a stray (because he has a penchant to root for the underdog). At first, you questioned if he even loved you at all.

But you’re older now,… and you see it, the heart he wears on his sleeve to bleed for you. He cares for you. And he’s there for you.

And when he asks you to leave with him- less of a hurried demand now and more of a gentle, imploring breath amidst chittering sounds of crickets and night bugs as he stands as a single shadow against your bed frame—

You take his hand.

✦

Boxes piled in every other corner, the building feels less like a home and more like a warehouse- a very tiny, cozy warehouse, with each of your scents intertwining in the unassuming spaces where you meet.

It’s no feat of architecture- just a small apartment nestled in the innards of the southern district, and it certainly isn’t a product of exorbitant spending (the place is deceptively… humble, for what Sylus can afford), but for what it is, you like it.

You’ve dwelled at several different addresses before, and you expect this arrangement will be more of the same. You stopped mourning over the loss of houses that could’ve been homes some time ago; you bounce between streets and domains like rabbits. However, there’s a strange comfort that builds in your chest as weeks pass and, for this reason or that, your guardian shows no signs of jilting the flat.

One day, he calls you to the living room after you’ve showered, and he sits you down.

You lie in a makeshift cage between his long legs as they hang over the couch, one hand smoothing over your damp hair while the other brushes it through.

He’s never in much of a hurry to speak, so when you reach for the TV remote to fill the silence, and he stops you- you concede to the quiet, knowing whatever he’ll say to break it will be worth some thought.

Still, he seems more contemplative than usual. It warrants pause on your end.

Internally, you consider your belongings- the deliberate choice you made to keep most of them boxed- and find relief in the fact that you’ll have less to pack if Sylus were to inform you right now of another move.

It’s a little sad, but it’s just the way things are. You won’t cry over the hand that you were dealt. If nothing else, you’re just thankful, what with the squeeze this city of sin has on its people, that somewhere along the way, Sylus came to loosen you from it.

You owe him. But he never names his price.

Long, rough fingertips meticulously weaving through your hair, gentle despite the callouses as he twists it into braids, you fall into the belief that he won’t.

Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but you can’t find much in you to debunk it save for the tiny, deep-rooted fear that one day you’d wake up, and- just like your parents on the day of outbreak- he’d be gone. There was plenty of doubts in your head, but most if not all were born from an old trauma, and Sylus seemed… content, weirdly enough, at your side.

It becomes an easier and easier thing to believe that’s where he’ll remain.

“Sweetie,” he eventually says, “I wanted to… discuss something, with you.”

You perk under his hands, spine straightening. You give him a sidelong glance over your shoulder and find his eyes, a sharp red, surprisingly mellow as they flit across the bridge of your nose, reading your expression carefully.

“What’s wrong?”

That (the instinctive response to believe something’s gone amiss) almost brings a wry smile to his lips, but he wets them a moment later and opens them to speak. “Nothing. Not this time,” he explains smoothly. “You… You’re used to moving around, the both of us are. I’m sure it’s been… tiring, at the best of times.”

“Well,” you start as a reply, but find your speech cropped short because you’ve no real way to deny that: it was exhausting. Of course it was. But wherever he went, you’d follow. That’s just how it’s always been.

Besides, if not fixed firmly at his side- you’d be choosing the hell that is overrun, lawless Linkon; to be tossed back into its maw for the predators or, if you’re more fortunate, a not as brutal death by starvation.

Noting your silence- your agreement- Sylus continues.

He ties off the end of the tuft with a colorful band and moves to work on the other, surprisingly deft. He’s only done your hair a million times- but still, his odd expertise in it was as surprising as it was endearing. The fact that you’re twenty-one now doesn’t change this common arrangement- or the mutual fondness the two of you have for it. You like when Sylus dries or does your hair, and evidently, he does too, for whatever reason.

Maybe it’s just therapeutic for him to feel something soft in his hands. He’s better acquainted with the opposite.

“So what if we were to stay?”

The words take a moment to click.

Because you don’t stay anywhere. You don’t stay, you just run and drive and hide. Live life perpetually on the down low. On the run.

Sylus does not settle.

Still, his voice, thoughtful and velvety, rumbles behind you in a continuous, comforting sound and forces you to take what he’s saying seriously.

“This place- you don’t dislike it, do you? It’s nice. Nothing gaudy or impressive. But it’s… homey,” he muses aloud. “Off the books. You’re safe here. Safer than what the other addresses had to offer, at least.”

You ponder it for all of five seconds before answering. And to be fair it’s not actually hard to; an inner part of you assumed you’d be on the move for all your life, but you’re weirdly pleased at the idea of… not being on the move for all your life.

Some anchorage sounds nice.

You tuck your head to your chest. “I… I think I would like that.”

He perks a bit. You feel it in his hands when they pause, done with their task, and one shifts to rest on your crown.

His knees, flanking either side of you, close in. Without thinking, you latch onto one’s calf and lean into it as you grab the remote. This time he lets you.

“Yeah?” He goes, a little breathless. “Are you sure? You realize it’d be a little more… permanent.”

“Okay.”

Sylus looses a sigh somewhere behind you.

“What I’m getting at is that you’re no longer a little squirt in desperate need of me,” he clarifies in a more pointed tone, and you resist arguing that- you have no time to, really, “so if you want to leave, you can feel free to. Don’t think you’re being shackled here by me.”

For as genuine as his words sound, you quickly cotton onto the expectancy that undercoats them- the mite of something that almost makes you believe he’s waiting for affirmation on your end. A rare thing. Usually it’s the other way around.

It pulls a huff from you, though. Peels of laughter rattle from the screen in front of you (he managed to unpack your TV, but as it stands, most of the house is still pretty bare) but you ignore your favorite show for the moment to turn and frown at him.

You grab his knee while you do, saying, “Of course I don’t think that. If anything, I feel like I’m holding you back.”

Scarlet eyes blink and widen, but just slightly. White hair falls over his brow (his locks loosening from gel after a long day) when he gives his head a tilt. After a beat, he laughs at you, a deep, rumbling sound- and pats your head directly after to fix the flustered knot in your brow.

“Well, I guess we’re both wrong then, hm?

He stoops forward to kiss your cheekbone- a chaste, quick thing- and then he gets up with a grunt to head for the hall.

You watch him with a strange flutter in your chest (one that you label affection; not a wrong guess but it also fails to fully encompass just what he means to you) and stare at the wall even as he disappears behind it.

But he calls over his broad shoulder to you, “Don’t sit too close to the screen, by the way. Someone tends to get headaches when watching cartoons.”

Crossing your arms with a pout, you lean your back into the seat of the couch and splay your legs out on the fluffy rug. You’re glad for that being unpacked, but quickly find yourself planning for the following days and all you’ll have to take out and assemble- which admittedly wasn’t much, but it was still enough to trigger your lazy streak.

Sometimes you just want to lounge around all day and do nothing: a fantasy that feels more possible after your guardian’s suggestion.

You holler back, “Oh, just go to sleep, old man.” Distantly, a door opens, but it doesn’t close.

He’ll be out later.

✦

He doesn’t come out later, contrary to your belief, but his open door does make a little more sense to you when it’s deep into the night and you emerge from your own room, scared, and traipse down the hall.

The remnants of a nightmare that felt too-real grip you. Five fingers on, they don’t let go.

But Sylus- the quasi foreboding man who took you in- knows how to pull you from a pinch.

You seek his warmth as the swath of wooden tiles cooling the balls of your feet blends into carpet- that of his bedroom- navigating in total darkness as you enter.

“Sylus-?” You can’t even get the word out before he startles upright and you hear the clink of something steely and dangerous—

“I-It’s me, daddy!” You assuage quickly, voice a frail, shaken sound that’s made even smaller by the dregs of a bad dream that still hangs fresh over your mind.

Even as the images peter out— claws wrapping around your throat, a dumpster rattling as you and other ragamuffins brawl over veritable trash as food, the roar of a predator as it holds you down, saliva dribbling into your ear— the emotions are harder to shake.

You feel dizzy and a little out of place as he lets out a deep sigh of relief, flicking on the lamplight, and blinks heavily at you.

The fingers that have dipped beneath the mattress retract and return to his lap. You observe it with a relaxing of your shoulders.

Some of the tension fades from him too, but not all of it.

He asks, concern entangled with gravely bits of exhaustion, “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

You say nothing, your own voice failing you as you mentally struggle to not only find your thoughts but string them together in a coherent way.

Everything around you was blurry. Felt unstable. A cold, clammy sweat licks up your palms and forehead. The ground beneath you grows a mouth and threatens to swallow you whole- the shadows in the corner ominous and great, watching.

Of course, it was only a nightmare, an unpleasant dream that you’d laugh about and forget easily enough come morning. But right now, it’s not. It’s vivid and horrifying and amalgamating into the atoms of reality to create a special kind of paranoia. It won’t let you sleep tonight.

…Not unless something’s there to hold you, at least.

Sylus’s own voice is groggy, a bit confused. Almost unthinkingly, though, he extends a hand to welcome you.

“C’mere,” he lifts the blanket and you’re instantly drawn to the empty space beside him.

You assume it with eagerness and all but barrel into his chest, punching out a grunt from him before he chuckles faintly, reaching over to pull on the thin, beaded chain. Darkness paints across your surroundings but a small highlight swims in cherry-red eyes as they soften at you.

Strong, lean arms wrap around you, helping you burrow into him without objection.

“Was it a nightmare?” He murmurs just above a whisper, voice warm but rough as the fluffy comforters, the same ones he tucks you both under, hug him back in. “Haven’t had one of those in a while, hm?”

He feels you jerkily nod under the dip of his chin and makes a sighing response. Callous finger pads close around your back and rub little circles there meant to soothe. “S’okay, kitten. It’s over now,” he breathes, languidly pecking your temple with open lips, smearing away the part of your fringe that’s been pasted there by a cold sweat.

He has this weird habit of taking you under his wing despite his serrated edges and the natural intensity of his stone face; right now, you curl up closer to his breast, finding a tenderness he perhaps only reserves for you, and he exhales overhead.

Fears are fast to flee, wrapped up by him. As moments pass, and your erratic heart rate resumes a more normal pace, you sound your gratitude in a low murmur. Vaguely, you wonder if you’d also stirred Sylus from a nightmare of his own upon stumbling into his room, because his own pulse- typically extremely slow- undulates in his sternum.

It thumps against your ear, creating a cadence almost considered fast. A touch uneven and a lot loud.

“…Thank you, daddy,” you mouth against him, nuzzling into his pajamas- a thin, linen shirt that oozes a domesticity you’re hard-pressed to come by.

Beneath your ear— a skip.

“For… for always being there for me.”

It sounds a little sappy, but in the moment, none of that phases you. Evidently- with a low, contented hum emanating from deep within his chest- it doesn’t phase Sylus, either.

You wonder if it’s your imagination or a real, bonafide smile that curves against your head.

“Well, that’s where I belong, isn’t it? At your side,” he murmurs, and after a beat you feel his lips press a kiss to your crown, mild but lingering. “And you belong at mine, if you want it. I’ll always be here for you, sweetie,” he promises, “no matter what.”

Finally, you let your eyes flutter shut.

✦

Weeks pass. They do so pleasantly; slowly, but not in a bad way.

The quiet- mainly the lack of wandering from point A to B all for the sake of anonymity- is a welcome reprieve. Some doubts linger surrounding the agreement you and Sylus came to, but it becomes a more solid idea in your head as days pass without interuption:

This can be home.

So you start acting like it.

When noon hits, you don’t go with Wolfe, Sylus’s most trusted contact, for the usual training session when he swings by- bidding him farewell with a small wave- but instead stay back to work on the house.

Noon comes and goes. The sky turns dusky and your belly howls for food but you pay none of it any mind, too engrossed to care.

Because this is exciting.

You decorate all throughout the day, unwrap furniture from cardboard and feel anticipation swell inside you. You sing and twirl.

Before Sylus returns, you buzz with excitement while picturing his face upon walking in- not to a barren space but to a cozy one- and the rare show of his surprise. It’ll probably be nothing beyond a flare of his eyes or a soft sound of acknowledgement, but you pine for it all the same.

You’d like to make him happy. To make him feel more comfortable, at home. Especially after a long day spent weaseling throughout the blind spots of the city. He’s only allowed so much time to kick off his shoes and relax, and you want to highlight those moments for him.

It’s the least you can do, you think with a small smile, stepping down from a stool to appraise a photo you just hung (one with his hand around your waist, pulling you to his side— a would-be perfect photo if not for the crow that blurs in the corner of the lens).

Focused, you stick your tongue out and square your fingers, closing one eye because that’ll definitely help you make a better judgement on whether or not the frame is straight enough—

It slants sharply when the front door opens and slams.

You jolt, ripped from your small trance as you spin your head towards the entryway, only an iota prepared to run for the hallway and bird dive into the closet- that’s if you even make it in time. Bullets will always be faster than your little legs and if you’re correct in your belief that it’s those shady men who hate Sylus, come to retaliate against him, then there’s no way they’ll deliberate and give you a chance to escape—

Sock-clad feet halt on the floor. The stop in momentum hurls your head inches beyond your axis of balance, but the figure that freezes in the threshold, familiar, tall but hunched over, somehow seems more surprised.

Not at the new touch-ups on the walls and the neat, embellished rooms- no, but at you.

Trudging into the apartment, he looks worse for wear and you take the sight of him in with a different, growing kind of alarm.

Your shoulders ease up, just slightly. It’s not an intruder, a pack of big, unscrupulous men barging in to avenge some grievance related to the assassin who took you in- which is relieving, but the concern is tight in your brow all the same.

When he speaks, his voice is ragged. Half man half animal.

“Sweetie- what are you-?” He cuts himself short to make a sound of displeasure that comes from deep within his throat. Raw, brutal.

“You shouldn’t be here-!” You give a little flinch in response to the ferocity in his tone, phlegm catching in his trachea before he looks down, shakes his head with a hard blink, and stomps into the bulwarks of the apartment.

“Dad, you-?”

Ignoring your startle (perhaps blind to it; you think his mind is on other, more inward matters as something wild glints in his eye- paired with a conflict that worsens with each heaving breath), Sylus grabs your wrist, and he does it tightly.

“There’s no time- I need you to hurry. Help me with my suppressants- now!”

Something clicks in you, then, a distant memory lighting itself from a foggy space of remembrance.

“And kitten, listen to me. If I ever… lose control,” he starts, words a gentle, almost resigned mumble against a backdrop of city sirens and a snarling engine as the car veers into a more secluded road. You stare at his profile with a flicker of unease. But he remains composed, saying as if it’s a topic as simple as the weather, “I need you to handle me,” he glances at you, gaze steady, a brilliant, solid red, even as your mouth opens to bluster out a denial of that possibility.

“But- your suppressants- We can use them—“

“Maybe,” he turns to look out the windshield, at the road ahead. Dust and debris scrape in the wind. Even for the southern district, the place was ratty, but this is where the deal was to be had, and Sylus needed those vials before morning. “But things don’t always go as planned, you know that, sweetie. So… If something ever fails, or I become immune to the dosages— I taught you how to shoot.”

“I- I wouldn’t shoot—!“

He snaps his head over and barks, fingers whiting around the wheel. “You would! You would and you will.”

Startled, your vision blurring despite the hand you close firmly over your breast- as if balling your emotions in your palm, holding them at bay- you swallow. Scarlet eyes ripple, irises dancing around a black orb as it shrinks and becomes frantic. Unease flutters in your chest as his cold instructions turn over in your mind- but for all his hammering of them into you- you don’t bite the hand that feeds. It’s just not in your nature.

You don’t even bite the hand if it asks you to.

Begs.

Noting your shock, the stunned expression that barely masks a confused kind of hurt, your guardian blinks. Sighs and looks away.

Exhaust blows out from the back of the vehicle; you catch it in dark tails from the rear view mirror, in whiffs as the air around you becomes sour and noxious.

“I taught you to shoot,” he says again after a beat. Softer, this time. “When it gets to the point where it really matters,… don’t let your daddy down, okay? Please, sweetie. Just… agree on this one thing.”

For once in a handful of years, not considered easy by any means- but enjoyable at his side- you stare at the man who took you in and find him cruel.

You dip your chin, more out of hurt than anything else, highly uncertain as dread contricts your lungs, and nod.

It does what it was meant for: It placates him. You think it even convinces him.

He’s putting all his faith in it, in that wordless assent you’d given him years ago, for the sake of the present.

Though, Sylus still thinks it’s manageable. That there’s still a shot that this frenzy- triggered by an enhancer after a gloved hand squeezed glass to the point of bleeding, vindictive and bent on getting the last laugh- can be resolved. So you hurry to lay him on the couch as his breathing picks up, scuttling towards his room before coming back with arms full of a briefcase.

You crash to the rug and prop the case on the coffee table, fishing out a syringe before sidling up to him and taking his arm.

With some resistance- and a grunt that sounds more wolfish than man- he lets you, and you line up the needle with his arm. You say a curse under your breath when tears smear across your lids and make fuzzy the room around you.

“Hurry,” he rasps.

Shakily, you dig at the crook of his arm with your thumb to plump up the vein before- with little coordination- you feed the needle in with a sharp breath.

It mingles with Sylus’s as he makes an uncomfortable noise, the glittery fluid disemboguing into his bloodstream.

Split seconds feels like eons.

Time moves slow as molasses and you chew on your lip until something like metal sours your tongue.

Between fingers that tremble wildly just to keep it inside him, steadily injecting him with the suppressant, and a heart that pounds with uncertainty in your ears— given no assurance whatsoever that you’re not too late to pacify him— you don’t realize all the gawking on his part.

The ardency in his gaze, fleetingly tender, as it remains fixed to you. Some unspoken battle happening behind it.

…The darker thing, with a name you can’t assign, is winning out.

He feels it, too; conscious thought lending itself to his baser person— instincts, ugly and primal and overwhelming— all against his will.

“You were supposed to be with Wolfe,” He forces out with great difficulty, sweat beading his temple. He’s hot to the touch, skin like a kiln, baking your fingertips as they hover over him.

Light as feathers, you still feel the burn.

“I would’ve never came.”

Thickly, you swallow, rubbing his forearm soothingly even as the veins there bulge and glow, putting a fright in you that you do well to ignore.

He needs you right now. He needs you and you won’t fail him.

“Shh, shh,” you hush, folding your upper half over the sofa to plant your head against his shoulder.

One hand, between your bodies, gradually plies him with the suppressant; the other slips to the nape of his neck and intwines with his mullet, tugging softly.

He lets out a soft sound at that, temporarily appeased.

“It’s okay, daddy. It’s okay.”

You need it to be true.

For what it’s worth, he does seem just a touch comforted by that.

It’s not lasting.

He’s dangerous, and he knows. He’s losing out to the predator instinct, and he knows and he’s terrified but he remains rigid. Has to.

“I want you to inject all of it into my veins,” a sonorous voice rings at your ear, dry, open lips moving against your head as he smushes a kiss there. You think it’s more subconscious a move than anything as the cognizant trace in him fades out, albeit you still appreciate it.

A large hand, hanging off the couch- shaking not because it’s weak but because it’s trying its best to be- shifts to rest over your back.

He continues, “And then I want you to leave me. If we’re lucky, I’ll pass out and ride it through that way…”

Clenching your jaw, you nod against his neck, under his chin, and bite down on a whimper.

“You’ll be okay, daddy. Tomorrow morning, you’ll be all better. The suppressants w-will make you sleepy, and—“

Something surges in him, then, a growl cutting through your eardrums as you flinch back and he- before the second little vial even reaches the halfway tick- knocks it from your hands.

It collides with the coffee table and shatters.

The rug- the fluffy one you’d happily picked out with him some months back- darkens with a splotch you can’t easily scrub out.

Like an animal in a cage he’s revolted. You’re not naive enough to not see the movement for what it is; no matter how watered down, it’s still a version of it: a beast lunging.

Whatever’s left of his conscience is just barely barring that monster off, but as you fall back on your ass and gape at him, you realize with horror he will not turn out as the victor.

Fear brews in your belly. Butterflies swarm the pit of it, leaving nausea in the wake of their wings as they make quick work of your bravery- or the pretense you held of it.

A drop of blood pricks from the crook of his arm, the syringe made useless as it lay broken on the carpet: you watch it with shock, numbness almost, before looking up to him.

He forces himself to go recumbent, five fingers splayed over his face. The gaps in them, though, reveal grimacing, pearly teeth.

Canines bared no different than a hungry predator, defensive and bold.

Unlike you, very real in their display.

For a number of seconds, you do not breathe. Eyes wide and scared.

“Go,” he croaks out after a moment.

It takes longer than it should to register.

When it does, you gasp as if stirred from a bad dream. It’s precious- the sign he gives that he’s still in control- and you don’t take it for granted. You rise to wobbling knees, frenetically glancing between the dazzling shards and his heaving chest.

You extend a cautionary, worried hand, something in you utterly wrecked at the sight of him- your savior, your shield, your father figure- crumpled in on himself.

“Daddy—“

“Go!”

Silence strobes across the living room, but just for a second. It bites into you where it settles.

Unthinkingly, you turn. His words and their grating tone cut better than any knife ever could. Tears clinging to your lashes, you steel your legs (because they’re gelatinous beneath you), whip around, and start for the front door.

You don’t know where you’ll go apart from Sylus tonight, but that’s all to be figured out later after you calm your nerves down a bit and convince yourself it’ll all be fine—

The couch groans atop its wooden frame.

Suddenly, a hand snatches around your wrist, scorching hot, and when you swirl around, his head is bowed.

A whit of hope strings you along—

“D-Dad?” You breathe, “Are you okay now?”

Scarlet eyes peer up from a silvery curtain of hair, aflame, near glowing, and you let out a gasp.

—And drops you.

“I thought you wanted to help little old me? So…” he muses darkly, “where are you going?”

The reality of your situation takes a second to catch up to you.

Something that can accurately be called fear clamps in your chest— not for what he could be but for what he is now. Some change has happened in him, some sickness taken root, and until it passes, you’ll be victim to the beast that wears your savior’s face.

Stunned, you listen. “Has your father ever left you hanging? Don’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same?”

“Sylus-“

He tuts, a belittling sound. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. C’mere, kitten, sit.” Long fingers entwine around your wrist and you’re reminded of wolf paws trampling over twigs in forests. It’s not unbearably tight a grip, not yet, at least, but he’s certainly applying more pressure than what he generally does.

You wet your dry lip, dread wringing you from the inside out. You feel oddly parched.

“But Sylus- you’re not-“

“Sit,” he suddenly growls, something undeniably dark glittering in his eye.

You’re without opportunity to argue or even try to reason with him, because he yanks you into his lap and loops his arms around your middle.

You liken yourself to a bird in a cage. His limbs your bars and your soft sounds of fear like twittering.

Using the last of your rational thought- your brain losing ground to fight or flight instinct- you try to think back to his instructions (funereal as they were), but find yourself creating other options. Even if you did want to shoot Sylus like he’d made you promise all those years ago, it’s not like you’ve got a gun lying around for it… No, the one he gave you (the one you keep as a token of him, like a locket) is sandwiched between your mattress and its framework.

A-And that’s where it’ll stay. No matter what.

Because you don’t bite the hand that feeds. You don’t bite the hand that feeds even after it pleads to be.

You decide, right then, that it’s better to play dead.

Sat perfectly still in his lap, your plan succeeds for all of half a minute before a hitch appears. To begin with, it was one born out of desperation, with low expectancy- but damn it all you still flinch when you become aware of his teeth and your proximity to them.

Fangs brush against your throat, uncomfortably sharp. It raises alarm in you, but it’s quickly lost in the other warning bells clanging in your skull.

You shiver. To your horror, Sylus chuckles.

“Are you scared I’ll hurt you?” He murmurs, breath searing your neck where it fans against it. It’s labored and fast; the depravity amplified against your earlobe.

Somewhere in you, you find the courage to answer. “A- A little,” you feebly admit. “I couldn’t get all the suppresants in.”

Sylus hums, low and satisfied, but you don’t quite miss the undercurrent of decadence in it- as much as you might want to.

“Good,” he quips. “Frenzies feel so much better without the pushback. You shouldn’t have injected any in me in the first place.”

“But you said-“

“It’s in my DNA to want to bite. It’s a little cruel to keep me from that… don’t you think?”

A debate happens within you, short-lived but tumultuous. You deliberate on answering because really, how can you? What is there to say that can temper him when he’s like this? A predator in the flesh.

And the thing about predators is that, somewhere in the equation, there must be prey—

But no. No- you refuse to believe he’ll succumb to that animalism, not when he’s more or less like blood to you. Your trust for him runs as thick as it, anyway. Blood is thicker than water, and poison, too- so the toxic lilt in his voice means nothing. Nothing at all.

You swallow, unable to offer any real reply. “I- I-“

“No,” he snips, a palm drifting lower. Positively impatient. Ever the obliging, albeit sometimes brusque man, the Sylus you know is nowhere to be found.

“Tell daddy what you really think of him. Think he’s a monster, don’t you?”

Finally, he nips at your neck, cutting himself loose from the self restraint he stubbornly moored himself to, groaning at the softness. Seamlessly, he suckles a hickey into your throat and you mewl.

The single thread of whatever the hell it is that’s keeping him at bay- his buried conscience, perhaps- snaps.

He makes a hot, ferocious sound, pawing at your breast now, drawing a startled yelp from you that his gums throb at. “Should he act accordingly? Hm? Use your words, kitten.”

Words? No. No, you think actions would suit you better- he’s not in his right mind right now and you need to leave like he’d ordered before your image of him, the one you’d put on a precious pedestal, collapses.

Daringly, you get up to try and bolt out again, mind single as your eyes dart to the front door.

If you can just leave the apartment, maybe you can lose him in the weaving, shady paths that are labyrinthine Linkon. Surely, he’ll find someone else, someone deserving (culpable men are not hard to come by here), and make them his glorified plaything instead.

By the time the sun rises, he’ll have woken from this awful, twisted trance—

He lets out a roar, angrily snatching you back onto the couch.

This time, though, there’s no semblance of freedom as he pins you under him, hovering close enough to bump his long nose against yours as he grips your hips tight enough to bruise.

“Nawh, you wound me, sweetie… And here I thought…” he rasps, ruby eyes glossing as the lid droops, blatantly ogling your jostling breast, “You had daddy’s better interest in mind.”

That’s unclear. But yours? Your better interest?

There it is again- blitzing across your frazzled conscience, stark against the dreadful haze: Play dead.

You do.

The blow will come, that’s definite. But if you play your cards right, maybe, a small hope in the back of your head says, you can lessen it.

You go limp beneath him and his hands. Even as they grope your tits through your shirt before he quickly foregoes that charade in favor of ripping open the collar, you remain still. You clamp your eyes shut and bite down on a pathetic sound.

Each and every one of your intentions evade riling him up, and yet your mere presence, pliant but shivering beneath him, does a good enough job at that on its own.

Still, as his energy builds into a devastating force, you’re quietly thankful for the amount you did manage to get in with the syringe. Likely, you realize with a heavy swoop of your heart, the determining factor in your life.

H-How much was it again-? Two vials? Or a vial and a half-?

Briefly, you glance over to the table where the case lay, open but half empty, and contemplate something stupid before the man- beast- above you laughs. Asserts himself in your face.

He’s all you see when he says, “I guess you don’t have your better interest in mind, either. Hm, kitten?”

And you’re all he smells, feels, knows, as he ruts his clothed cock against your thigh and you feel the swollen bulge. You shiver again. He’s really, really hard and is he actually planning to fuck you with that-?

You?

The pleasured, but not close to satisfied, grunt he makes says yes. Yes, absolutely he’s going to fuck you.

Rip off your panties after uncivilly pulling off your shorts and stuff his flushed length inside with a—

—“Fuck, kitty!”

He’s met with resistance.

And you forget your plan completely, terror taking over entirely as you begin to wriggle and plead for him to hold off, to reconsider— you’re a virgin and he’s mean and given your relationship, you two were never supposed to end up parallel to one another on the couch, desire brewing between your naked bodies. Well, you’re naked- or growingly; but Sylus isn’t.

Scraps of leather cling to sturdy, lean muscle, but he’s broiling in them still, skin licked with sweat. Evidently, heat has fried his neurons- his memory of himself- too.

“Please, daddy, I- I’ll—“

Oh, break. You’ll one hundred percent break but you keep from saying it aloud because you suspect it’ll warm his blood all the more. A correct guess, but it’s a little late for taking back what you did say. Sylus cottons onto it and groans.

“Don’t do this, Sylus,” you try to remind him of who he really is, even if your voice is small and untrustworthy. “Y-You don’t have to. J-Just remember who you are- who I am!”

His precious girl.

Once, he’d even said, his treasure.

Your heart stings.

Taking out the engorged, weeping head of him and rubbing it at your mostly-dry entrance (in hopes to prime it after failing to push his way inside), he’s hardly lucid as you babble.

Cute… But unimportant, he decides.

…Yet, he does somehow find it in him to look up, and you do find a trace of… something in him, human-like and guilty, when he does. It’s quicksilver. Gone when you blink.

Your pussy lips try to spit him out but it just works him up further.

The darkness in his gaze returns in tenfold.

He manages a scoff. “Oh, c’mon. Of course I remember~ You’re daddy’s little girl, aren’t you?” He hums meanly, suddenly immune to the wide, kicked look you send him. It’s always done wonders on him before, but you’re met with failure.

“So how come you can’t take his cock? I know you could, if you just tried a little harder. Relaaax. Ease up. From now on, someone’s gonna have to be the calm one between us when I get into my frenzies. You can be that, right?” That sentence instills dismay in you for many reasons, but you have no time to think on them.

He husks, “Now, go on. Help guide me in.”

You don’t reach a hand down between you two like perhaps he wanted, but you do hear a faint squelch right then as he cants his hips forward an inch, and it does make you gasp. Despite yourself, you slick up for him- for God knows what reason, maybe just as self preservation or some deeper, pitiful attempt to please him- and it becomes obvious.

Sylus notes it with a shaky breath that blends with his other labored, ragged ones, and a grin that’d better suit a bastard.

He delves inside, by a small miracle, but you can’t stop from crying when he reaches halfway in and blood rings around the thick base of him. Inwardly, you try to separate the sin from the face, telling yourself between strained breaths that he’s not in control, that this frightening, terribly unfamiliar side isn’t the real him.

You whimper more when you realize you’ll be squinting at him for months to come, losing sleep over the question of, was he helpless to the beast, or hiding it in him all along? Was he a mere victim to the predator instinct forced onto him? or willfully steering it—?

No. No. Because he’s like blood to you. And blood is thicker than water, and poison, and the niggling doubts you feed on until gluttony.

“I-It hurts,” you try when he bottoms out with a resounding groan. Shameless and frenetic. He stoops over you after pressing your legs all the way back to the couch, rough as he purrs in your ear.

“You say it hurts, but your pussy just squeezes tighter around me… So you’d understand why I’d be getting mixed reactions, don’t you?”

He whispers. For the second documented time, you find Sylus cruel. Very, painfully, cruel.

It’s hard to argue with him, even when you know he’s wrong. You think if he was more awake right now, more him, then he’d side with you as well. And yet he’s completely untrustworthy right now, morally black and mean. So, so mean.

That devilish smirk on his blissed-out face might bring on an even sharper sting than his cock as it spears inside you and starts a brutal pace.

Well.

Not quite.

Your eyes flare. So do his, want and pure, unadulterated need zipping between your bodies as his perspiration dribbles onto your collar. He hangs his head into your shoulder and you feel droplets slip between the valley of your breast.

It doesn’t take long for the heat to feel sweltering; sweat running like the Nile between you both.

“Silly little bird. You just- hah, fuck- have no clue, do you? How tempting you are?”

You ignore it all because it’s better to. Maybe ignorance won’t shield you from his hands as they clench around the fat of your hips, but it’ll certainly help you later on down the line when you want to forget and are thankful for the kickstart.

You try to focus on the ceiling, but even that blurs behind him when he leans back some just to stare, moaning at what he sees.

Even beasts can appreciate beauty, he distantly observes.

Those eyes on you, not gentle per usual (albeit sometimes tinged with a harmless tease) but ravenous and sharp- are even harder to ignore. You can’t stop your hands from lifting to push at his face to try to block him out.

All for naught, of course.

With a choked moan, he chuckles. “Ugh- look at you. These little hands keep swatting at me, even though your face is full of pleasure. Fuck,” he curses, his face handsome but a bit unnerving as it dons a more perverted look, eyes half closed, “You feel…. good. I always knew you would.”

No. No. Shut up, shut up—

“You wanna be good for your daddy?”

Yes.

Not like this.

He gathers your unruly hands and cuffs them above your head. “Then lie down and take it. If it hurts as much as you pretend, I’m sure it’ll… feel better that way, if you give in.”

There’s a very small window in between Sylus hovering over you and then Sylus dipping down to bite the fleshy bit between your neck and shoulder: in it, there’s no time to prepare.

Ice tingles in your veins, shock stealing your breath.

It’s the pain, first dull and uncomfortable as his teeth sink in, but then quickly all-consuming, that helps you find the scream.

The scream— a small, broken cry.

It doesn’t make much noise, not enough for any possible neighbors to hear- in Linkon, none would even bat an eye to it, anyway- but he covers your mouth regardless. He eats up the pathetic sounds with rough lips and hungry groans.

You don’t know how much blood he’s drawn, but there’s a little on his teeth that he makes you taste.

“Ngh, you’re delicious,” he heaves after a break. Saliva connects you both in a fleeting strand. “I’m sure your pussy tastes even better- but kitten, I really don’t have the time right now to try it. You’ll forgive me, won’t you?” He chuckles in your ear. You know he does not care for the answer. It’s deep and mean-spirited.

This side of Sylus- this rotten caricature of the man who took you in— All the hurt for it turns to loathing.

“For later,” he decides after a beat, resolved as he ignores your sneer.

You’re used to ambition on his end, but not greed: right now, his goals gravitate more towards selfishness than anything else.

All of it nears its end and quickly.

As he ruts into you, though, frenzied thrusts reaching their mark with loud grunts, it feels more gradual for you… Painfully slow. Seconds might as well be minutes, or hours, even.

It’s feral, the glint in his eye as he reshapes your walls to fit the outline of his massive cock, your virgin pussy spasming around him. Responsively, he gives a twitch, and you swear you feel his balls jump when he pauses- just for a moment- and they rest above your ass.

Sylus looks down at you, breathless and wild, and you shake at the lack of familiarity in his gaze. Ruby red eyes survey you almost frantically, with one intent only- to fuck you within an inch of your life, undoubtedly. Full of need. It’s a bottomless gaze. You think right then that you can’t give him what he wants because he’ll always be left wanting for more.

You’re not an ocean— if he reaches his hand in, he’ll inevitably reach the bottom but that clearly doesn’t stop him from trying to pull everything from out of you anyway.

It scares you. You feel small, mouse-like, but when he snatches your jaw into a sultry kiss, all canines and spit, you realize that even amidst the tumult of his predator state, you still mean something to him.

You’re all he sees. Feels. Understands to want for.

He burns inside you, the juncture of your thighs becoming sticky, gross. He ploughs inside without care for it, chasing his end and choking out moans along the way.

He coaxes some out of you, too.

Maybe it’s out of fear but you suckle on his tongue experimentally and he shakes, damp skin shivering under your finger pads as you dig them into his forearm.

Maybe you can’t play dead, but if all else fails, you can still play nice.

That’s in your best interest.

“F-uck, sweet thing, you’re gonna make me-“ a primal noise rips through his chest and rings in your ears. He lowers himself to your neck again and suckles at the orbs of blood that prick at the surface, lapping away at the small mess he made.

You wonder if after all this is over, you’ll be able to pretend it was just a love-bite, a hickey or something minor. Healable. Something able to be forgiven. Even if that would also be hard to reconcile with, considering you’d never thought he do something like this to you, the precious girl he’d flip Linkon upside down for—

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He’s classy, but not now. Cursing up a storm at your clavicle and pounding into you without thought, blunt nails embedding into your hips. Aching to brand himself wherever he can.

There’s no ceremony to it all (though there is a build-up, his pelvis quickening but stuttering against the underside of your bent thighs) when he comes.

He shouts and you scream, holding onto him for dear life as a torrent of something hot and thick floods you. Your legs shake, poor cunt desperately trying to push its intruder out but it flutters when he throbs inside you and quivers. A wisp of pleasure paralyzes you- it’s so good.

Warmth trickles between you; all along the seam of you when he withdraws until only the tip remains, his cheeks flushed, eyes unfocused.

You let your head bounce against the cushion when he slides it all out with a wet ‘pop’, squeezing your eyes shut in shame. But relief joins it, too, your jaw (that had went slack only to howl with delight) closing as you catch your breath.

It’s done. It’s over. You went through the hard part and now you just have to wait the aftershocks of it out until morning, when you’ll finally be given the chance to recuperate and forget the monster your daddy was acting the night before—

Something thick, straightening back to life, nudges at your sopping hole again as it clenches around nothing. Your eyes snap open.

A large, callous palm holds you down, bracing you by the collarbone. He tuts, leaning over you with a dazed but wholly vicious grin.

Far from satiated.

“Ah-ah, kitten. It’s a little early to tap out, isn’t it? I’m far from done with you.”

He drives himself back home, slamming into you with a moan you brokenly mirror.

✦

Morning birds tweet outside the window. Bickering back and forth to one another.

The sheer curtains glow with sunlight as the onset of dawn makes its way in. Rays of it slur together in blocks on the floor.

Sylus’s room, you realize groggily. Not the living room with its new sofa stained with sweat and sex or the rug with its shattered, neon vials.

A strong arm holds lazily to your waist. Warm breath at your ear tickles you into slight wakefulness. The body slotted behind yours isn’t scorching hot like your nerve endings remember, though, almost flinching in response, and his sounds aren’t ragged. No, it’s…

Peaceful.

The events of the evening before come back to you in increments.

Your mind, with the natural want to protect you, chalks it all up to a bad dream.

The ache between your sticky legs and the fat cockhead that sits limply above the cleft of your ass- appeased- says otherwise.

You let out a soft gasp. The man behind you grumbles out a low, noncommittal sound before his lashes flutter over the blade of your shoulder.

“…Baby? What’s wrong?”

He untucks himself from there and is given great pause when his nakedness- and yours- clicks. His limbs harden around you— horrified and confused as every fresh memory from last night comes barreling into him as well.

Stunned, he lifts his head from its perch at your shoulder, but his hand remains above your hip, feather light and hesitant.

Wearily, you turn to meet him when his other hand gently steers your chin to look his way.

He looks tired. Fucking exhausted, the fine wrinkles in his face emphasized under the weight of the night prior. He looks—

Devastated.

“You-…” A sharp, shallow breath beats from his chest. His eyes, wide and unsteady, flit between yours, searching desperately for something he can’t quite find or recognize as you wet your lip to speak.

“Yesterday, I… Started decorating the house. I was excited to show you,” you say without really knowing why. Sylus’s shoulders sag ever so slightly at your apparent calmness, but the fear in his eye remains as he surveys the bruises- all the discoloration in your otherwise supple skin- and blinks.

You inhale shakily, looking down to his chest and all its striations, put on full display in the afterglow of what transpired however many hours before.

It feels wrong to call it a night of love-making, or even a term more raw, unfeeling, as sex. No, it was…

He fucked you within an inch of your life and that was all you really knew. He fucked you until you passed out and then sometime afterwards, apparently snapped out of his trance just enough to carry you back to his bed and sleep the remnant of his frenzy through.

But it wasn’t his fault. Couldn’t have been.

(Whose, then?)

You murmur, “I should’ve went with Wolfe.”

“No,” and there it is again, that fucking snarl, searing you through to the core but before panic can settle, he’s cradling your cheeks and pressing his forehead to yours.

His eyes are intense, but not scary. No, they’re tender and beaten and lovely as his chest shudders and he shakes his head. “No, sweetie. What happened…” he starts, just as unsure of how to label it, “had nothing to do with you. Don’t ever blame it on yourself. Do you understand?”

Blearily, you nod.

You see him in double when he sighs and carefully thumbs away a tear you didn’t realize had formed and fell.

…But Sylus appears a mite uncertain with himself when his eyes fall to your breast before quickly averting, self aware to the point of near pain and definite discomfort. “I’ll clean us up,” he ventures, glancing at you again.

For permission, you realize. To scoop your jelly limbs up and carry you to the shower, bridal-style, where he’ll wash the both of you naked, intimate and-

And should-be alarming.

But it’s not. Not now when you’re still dazed and bruised and his dried cum is caked to your thighs in white rivulets- and he’s just as wounded, but ready to fix. Ready to repaint over the peeling bits of you both in the aftermath of it all. Hang a picture over the hole in the wall of your heart.

“…Okay.”

He wastes no time in picking you up, but he’s gentler than ever when he takes you with him to the bathroom adjoined to his room. It’s awkward: you note that even in the bone-deep fatigue. You can tell he’s trying not to look at all the places instinct tells him he should, and you do well to blot out the sight (and memory) of his softened cock as it dangles between his legs.

The shower starts. Sylus keeps you upright so you don’t fall because your joints will literally fail you otherwise.

“I’m sorry,” he laments as the water pours overhead, holding you against him. He means it in more ways than one. And yet, before you can voice your acknowledgement, and an unsure forgiveness, a small hope stirring in your gut that says this can be moved on from—

His lips press to yours. Chaste but searing; somehow even more world-shattering than last night.

It’s different. He’s… awake.

Jaw slack, you blink at him, water clumping your lashes both. He’s as handsome as a wolf is hungry but- for the moment- domesticated. Even his crow’s feet seem to soften.

“I’ll help you unpack the rest today,” is all he says as he reaches behind you for the soap, gaze unwavering even as you latch onto him and your perfect tits jiggle, his hand dipping below to carefully lather at your marks.

“This house can still be a home. I’ll show you.”

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 ♡

[sepdet]

every now and then i remember this relic of the early 2000s web is still buried in the bowels of the BBC's official website

Thank you, Tumblr, for allowing us to preserve this abomination in all its looping horror

The OFFICIAL Doctor Who Dance Video: Romana vs. Kylie (HD)

[whambambatfam]

Webs of a Wing

Chapter 3

It's scrunkly time.

I hope you guys like it, I wasn't so sure about this one. T∆T

Reader ages 12 - 15

───── ⋆⋅ 🕸 ⋅⋆ ─────

Not long after Grayson's departure from the manor... He came along, Jason Todd.

Coming in, rough around the edges, and bringing joy to the hollow halls. Ones you've roamed like a ghost on your own for years. He's got more adolescent defiance than your whole clique put together. The type of energy that shook up the old bones of this old house and awakened hope in your heart once again.

This was the kid's first time having a solid roof over his head, warm bed to sleep in, decent food to eat and people to worry about him, a real home. Unlike Bruce, who couldn't come to terms with your relations or Dick, who felt threatened by it. Jason was loud and clear in his intentions, he wanted to make the most of his new family. Including you.

A boy with black hair, blue eyes, and a stocky build for a twelve year old stands besides Alfred. “Master Jason will be living with us in the manor. He'll be a brother of sorts to you, just as Master Dick.” but you didn't want this to be like your and Dick's unstable relationship.

Alfred smiled at the determination set on your face as you gave him your name, “It's nice to meet you.” your hand quickly outstretched to the boy, “Uh, I hope.. we can be.. friends?”

Jason's face lights up your offer, taking your hand in his, “Yeah, friends. ‘Never had a sibling before.” Tugging you closer, his hand in yours pulls you along, “Come on, show me around.”

From then on, your days spent with only Alfred for company had a new, refreshing addition. 

Alfred has allowed the two of you to start cooking your own breakfast unsupervised. Given that you don't burn the kitchen down. “How many times have you done this?” Jason huffs as he picks egg shells from the bowl he's whisking. They slip through the tongs of the fork as he scrapes them along the side.

Pouring your egg mixture into the frying pan, you smile teasingly at him. “Only a few.” You take the bowl from his frustrated hands, “Try this, it might be more your speed.”

He accepts the wrapped loaf of bread with a scowl. Pulling out the toaster with a grumble, “I'm not an idiot, I know how to fend for myself.” 

“I never said you were. I've seen you do all kinds of stuff.” You move to the sink, wetting your fingers to pluck the last bits from the bowl. “

Jason turns away, stuffing four slices into the double toaster. “So it's just cooking that i suck at?” He drops his head on the counter, arms crossing as he grumbles.

Returning to the stove, you move your own cooking egg to the side. “No! You're the best at, like, everything you do.” Tipping the contents into the pan it sizzles to life again. “A few shells won't change that.”

There's pink clinging to his ears at your praise, “I'm not good at everything..”

“Oh my- obviously!”

“What!?” Sputtering, he whips his head around.

“It's bruning!” Yanking the plug from the toaster, the blackened squares pop up together. Three out of the four of them come out half charred. 

“Tha-that doesn't count.” The heat creeping up his neck flushes his face. “You distracted me!” 

“Uhuh, yeah.” You slide the omelet onto a plate for Jason as he replaces the burnt bread. “Your eggs are done.”

Jason is quick to deflect the old butler's inquiries on the smell of burnt bread. You'd hate to have your kitchen privileges revoked. When you offer to teach him how to crack eggs and use the toaster, he tells you to shut up with an obscured smile.

You were happy. Even when the newest boy wonder was busy training his nights away with the Bat. Talking about Bruce, spending time with him, connecting with him like you never could. Even when Dick started to hang around again. Coming to the manor, eventually joining the occasional patrol. Now Nightwing, protector of Blüd Haven. Brand new spandex, stupid big collar, and everything.

It didn't hurt to see him appear to come around slowly to his successor. Eventually accepting his replacement with relative ease. When you would always just be a thorn in his side, locked in a one-sided fight for first.

"You know how to fight, right?" The two of you were sitting outside. It was as muggy as Gotham usually is but it felt nice to be out.

He snorts, tossing a stone hard across the water. "Of course. Can't get by on the streets without." The small rock hops only twice before sinking.

Swiping a smooth stone from the shoreline, you run your finger along it, inspecting each divet and groove. "Can you.. teach me?" 

Sure, you were trained in martial arts but, being on the mat differs from being on the street. While your work in Gymnastics has helped you slip through and run when need be. You knew you might have to fight back one day. Maybe you wanted to.

There's a huff of exasperation behind you "Yeah, no, not happening." 

Dick Grayson's approach was silent until he wanted you to know he was there. Arms crossed and face already set in an unimpressed look.

“What?!" Jason jumps to his feet, making his way swiftly over, "I could totally do it!" 

"Then what?" With a raise of his brow, he scoffs, "Get grounded forever?" 

"It's not like I'm gonna take them-" Dick cuts him off with a raised hand.

"Stop, Jay. You're only going to get the both of you in trouble." The older siblings' hands make their way to his hips.

Tossing your rock across a water's surface, it skips along three times before sinking. “I'm not exactly new to it.”

You're almost surprised when Dick actually responds. "I'm sorry, kid. Bruce isn't going to be happy about it either.” 

As if he would even notice. "You wouldn't have to be so.. worried if I could be taught to defend myself.” Sighing in irritation, you turn your gaze back to the water.

“You don't need to, we can protect you just fine." Dick steps up behind you, patting your head. The contact catches your breath painfully and you have to fight the urge to swat it away. "And if you really don't want anyone to worry. Stay home. Stay safe." Stay out of the way. 

When he finally leaves, you feel like you can breathe again. Jason's abrupt grasp pulls your attention back to him, "Dickie and the old man can blow smoke." His grin was brighter than the sun, his hand clasping yours as he pulled you to your feet, "Let's go."

You can't fight the pull at your own lips, feet stumbling to catch up to his sudden pace. "Right behind you."

No, it didn't hurt. Because you won't let it, because, despite it all, he always came back to you. 

After packing your schedule with martial arts training Mondays and Wednesday before stitch work and knitting circle with Alfred. Gwen decides to join your gymnastics, her studies leaving her sitting at a desk too long. Tuesdays you drag both girls to self defense classes, you've seen enough shit go down with the birds. Also, it's Gotham, they should be better equipped to handle themselves. Your photos with Mj for the paper is due Thursday morning in time for the paper to come out on Friday. That leaves the weekend up for grabs. This one in particular was claimed by both your friends and brother.

“Whatcha readin’?” 

Jason jolts in his seat, slapping his hand over his mouth to subjugate any embarrassing noises. With a bark of your name he whips around to find you snickering over his shoulder. 

Cerulean eyes narrow as he grumbles at you. “How do you do that.. it's unnatural.” 

It was unnatural to he who trains under the Bat. You used to hate being unintentionally sneaking. Mj and Gwen can pick you out of a crowd of clones, there's no way you could sneak up on either of them. But, other people? Shrieking when they finally realized you were in the same room as them. That only made you feel even more invisible, and not in the ways you wanted.

You scoff, “That's dramatic.” Now, with Jason, you can finally get a laugh from it. Settling down on the couch beside him, you recognize the book in his hand, “Hey, that's one of mine!”

Swiping it away before you have the chance to snatch it, “Ha! Shouldn't have left it out.” he lifts the novella over his head, tongue stuck out at you.

“It was in my room, on my bed.” You huff, jumping for it as he stands, holding it over your head. 

“Yeah, it was, wasn't it?” Jason smirks, waving the book just out of reach, “Y'know, you actually have taste. Sometimes.”

“Give it back!" Grabbing his forearm you try pulling it down but do better at lifting yourself off the ground.

"I'm almost done." He chuckles into his fist at your frantic cat like swiping.

"Wow. So, this is the totally cool brother you've been talking about?” At the sound of a new voice, he snaps his attention to Mj. Arms crossed as she leaned against the archway to the living room.

“Dunno.. Sounds like a bully to me.” Gwen chimes in coming up besides her. She mirrors Mjs stance, doubling the judgemental

The book falls from Jason's hands and you catch it. Tucking it away safely under your arm.“Wha- uh, no! I am totally cool, ask them!” Jason whips around to hiss at you, face flushed with mortification, “Why didn't you tell me you were bringing your friends over?”

You roll your eyes, “I did. That's, like, the one thing we talked about before school this morning.” You can just barely hear the strained ‘Oooooh, right.’ as he mumbled something about a long night under his breath. Of course, he tries to make a ‘smooth’ recovery only to be blasted by your friends. You do, eventually, come to his defense.

It's nice to bring these two sides of yourself together like this. Jason may make an ass of himself but at least he knows how to not lose face completely. It makes you proud when, at the end of their stay, they sing his praises. Insisting on involving him again in their next visit to the manor. 

He came home, he sought you out, he wanted that connection you craved. The one thing you wanted, for one of them to look away from the stage of their busy lives and find you there. Waiting at home, creating that solace from a bustling world beyond these solid walls.

Creeping your door shut, you slide the lock closed. Having someone walk in on you was never a worry before. Now, whether it be doing homework together, exchanging books, deciding anything, general complaining and gossip, avoiding chores, especially hiding from Bruce and occasionally just to annoy you. Your brother struts in whenever the whim strikes him. The prick.. Shuffling to the bed, you land on it heavily alongside your bookbag. Books, pencils, and such escape their confines, your camera ferried out on top of the pile.

With a stretch and sigh, you get ready to nip pick. Three folders, each with a plethora of candids, articles, and notes. One in particular is becoming just a smidge overcrowded. Threatening to spill its contents every time it's jostled a bit too much.

What can you say? Your brother serves more than just justice in that cute lil Robin suit, and his action shots are the best. The guy is out there having fun and it shows. Your friends even agree when you can't help gushing over your late night photography sessions.

Well, after calling you crazy for going out at night in this city. Especially, with how close to the fighting you had obviously gotten. It may have taken a while to convince them that you weren't going to get yourself caught up in the middle of a Riddler maze or Two-face shoot out.

Deciding which should go in and which should come out is always a tedious process. The one with better exposure or with neater composition? You've already got a shot of him perched on that same gargoyle but, this one's a year old now. Maybe you could keep both, like a comparison, but you couldn't possibly.. maybe.. Then you'd go over your count and need to tosse another and you'd have to pick which and-Your cell rings. 

Lost in thought, the noise makes you jump like a cat at the loud sound. Swiping the noisy thing off the sheets, you answer with a huff.

“Heyyyy.. Sorry, I can't make it tonight..” Jason's voice came through the phone with tight regret, “I've got, uh... something came up. Tomorrow, I promise.”

It was a phrase you've heard before, more times to count. They'd use such weak excuses, only for tomorrow to never come. There was no later.

“Yeah, it's okay Jay.” The response was automatic, coming without a thought. How could you deny their call to action? There were always going to be things more important. “I get it. Just.. be safe, okay?”

“Of course, not like I'm doing anything crazy. I'll be with Bruce, we're fine.”

So, it didn't hurt that he tried keeping you in the dark like they did. You knew his concern was real, his care genuine. At least you want to know that he meant it, that he wasn't trying to push you aside. You'd just have to trust him.

“Up there! It's Batman!” A young boy yelps and tugs at his mother's arm, finger raised to the sky.

Eyes cast upwards, you watch as they jump from one building to the next. Capes billowing in the wind behind them. Following close, you run along sidewalks and duck through alleyways to keep up.

Pulling your camera up, you snap shots of Robin as he leaps off a rooftop. Capturing him mid-air, bright yellow fluttering behind him. The domino hardly masking his face of sheer joy paired with intense focus. His were always your favorite, filling his folder was easy. You wish you could show him some of the pictures you have of him. Maybe someday the two of you could go through it together. Would he find it creepy? Hopefully not...

You would never dare voice it but, you were envious of them. When they took to the soggy Gotham skies, gliding with ease above it all. Mouth hung agape, you watched the wind blowing through Jason's hair, and Dick with his flips and twirls. Even Bruce, using his cape to glide alongside them.

Well, maybe you told- “Alfred!” Your ride’s here and your mad dash through the city has been cut short.

“Crime alley is no place for an upstanding teen.” He tuts with a smile as you reach the car. Always a pinch of sugar with his scolding, “Come along, let's get home.”

Hopping in beside him, you can't keep your eyes off the stars. “I want to fly like them one day...” With a hum, He drives you two back to the manor.

Life is feeling better by the day. It's as if everythings clicked into place. The years you get with him are the most whole you feel. The only real sense of normalcy throughout your youth.

That night, he was home late despite not being on patrol. You overheard, well eavesdropped, that Jason was put off duty. Still he was out on his own, positively pissed, and came home after dark. Heading straight to his room, he brushes off Alfred, insisting on being left alone.

You can't help finding yourself standing anxiously at his door anyway. It didn't feel right, letting him fester in his anger alone. Knocking yields no results but, calling out his name softly earns you the same in return.

Opening the door slowly you peek in to see him, sitting on his bed with a box. His face is grim but he waves you in, motioning for you to sit with him. You do, placing yourself at the foot of his bed. Across from him with a box of papers and photos between you. Jason fiddles with an old looking photo, scanning it over and over. 

"I know you don't like talking about it, but," He swallows thickly before his eyes can meet yours pensively. "You, um, got a mom, right?"

It feels like the wind’s been knocked out of you. Yeah, you didn't like to talk about it, let alone think about it. "I guess, technically." You shrug it off the best you can, "I mean, ya know, everyone's gotta come from somewhere."

He rolls his eyes, dropping the picture back into the cardboard. "Yeah, no shit, that's not what I'm saying."

Really? You came to check in on him. Now you’re being snipped at over something he knows you're sensitive about. "Well, then, I don't want to know if your just-" Before you can fully lift yourself off the bed, he's gripping your wrist.

"Wait! I'm sorry, don't go!" His fingers tremble around his hold on you. He tries not to squeeze you too tightly while still keeping you close. "I-I just.." His other hand grips the box enough to crumple the cardboard under it.

"Jay..." You sigh, this unusual distress from your brother making giving in easier "I don't know. Maybe before but, I don't remember back then." Just nightmares of things you couldn't grip the memory of fully. Thinking of your mother and what she may have gone through with you? Only if it could help with whatever's eating at him, "I can't remember anything before being here. Blurry faces, locations I can't place. I didn't even know what her name was. Can't remember her face.."

When you sit back down he finally releases you. A hand runs through black curled, "I shouldn't have asked. Sorry if it's..."

"No, it's whatever. Who cares? Just..." You shrug, looking over the darkening Gotham sky, "Must not have been anything good." Fingers twist into the sheet below you in unease.

It did hurt though, every question slipping through your finger never to be answered. Flitting past your mind painfully when you linger too long on the past.

Your eyes are drawn back to Jason as he pulls a paper from the box. "I got some stuff earlier and..." He shows you old documents and photos that he was given by an old neighbor. You recognized the little Jason with, from what you're told, his father and stepmother. 

His explanation paused as you cooed at his baby face, which he does not appreciate. So, the woman who raised him, who passed, wasn't the same as his birth mother, who's alive. "I think I can find her but I don't know how long it'll take. I"

"That's," Blinking a few times at plie of evidence towards his childhood, you look back at him. "alot, but I'm sure if anyone could do it, that's you."

"You're not gonna.. try to talk me out of it?"

"Would you listen?" You raise a brow at him, his shoulders shoot up in turn, guilt evident. "Exactly." With a smirk you help him pack away everything. His face still knit pensively even after he sets the box aside, you scan the partly packed suitcase. It starts to feel too real but you know there's no helping it. So, you offer him all you can, taking his hand in yours, "Look, I don't know where you're going or what you're doing exactly but,” You squeeze his fingers and he returns it, “I trust you and I'll always be here for you."

Jason pulls your connected hand, rigging you into a tight embrace. "Thanks." His chuckle waivers against your shoulder, arms constricting around your midsection.

You repay his embrace in kind, forgiving the crushing weight of his hug as you blink away tears. "Just, please, stay safe. Okay?"

"Of course, look at who you're talking to, I'm the definition of cautious." He pulls away enough to give you a winning grin and you return it with your hardest 'You're joking, right?' face. "Alright, fine. I'll be careful. I'll be safe. Promise.”

“So, how are you getting there?" You sit crossed legs on his beds as he packs his bag. Chin resting on your palms you tilt your head as his rifles around his pocket.

“These!” He presents her a literal handful of credit cards. "I'll be flying, first class, duh” he notices your dropped jaw. "Please don't tell Alfred..." 

Teeth snapping shut, hands dropping to your lap, you blink at his little card haul, “Jason," you sighed, exasperated, “Where are you going?"

“The.. middle east?” Chuckling nervously as he stuffs them away, he watches the concern grow on your face at just how far he would be going.

“Your- Please, if you listen to anything I say. Jason.” You grab his shoulders, setting him with your sternest look “Do not die.”

“Oh my- Seriously?!" Rolling his eyes he shrugs your hands off, “I'm not gonna die!"

───── ⋆⋅ 🕸 ⋅⋆ ─────

Tag list?!

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[anantaru]

synopsis. you got alhaitham to tutor you, although he uses a method you weren't quite expecting, ⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ cw, fingering, soft dom alhaitham, petnames used: good girl, fem! reader ᰔ

"repeat that paragraph, that one, read it to me," shuddered and twisted, you weakly nod back at alhaitham's words, the veil of lust drawing across his face.

you admire his honed jaw and poised tone, the perfect shade of red on his cheeks, no trace of imperfections except a lustre ignite of fire shaped inside the yearning in his eyes.

for now, you were only capable to re-read half of the paragraph as he digs the finger deeper inside before curling it, curling it hard, nudging your puffy cunt as you close your eyes at the impact, alternating between squeezing his hand with your thighs and parting your legs in obvious invitation.

alhaitham continues to lightly stroke over your searing walls, tracing his way further until you squirm at the mind-altering press on your cunt, your hole clenching around the digit, holding the finger in for him to never leave you, "yeah, good girl— ugh, but what else? that's not all," he grins as you sneakily ride his hand, his cock hardening inside his pants.

you rest your head on his shoulder, your focus forced on holding onto the book as good as you could.

you attempt to continue, founding it to be futile when he fucks you with a precision that quickened your blood.

"what else do you got for me?" he repeats.

"c-can we just forget about studying already?" you attempt to reason, stuttering over your words, "you know i can't— i want more," as you cough out and squirm, your hips shifting forward so your clit could grind against the heel of his hand ever so often, "i can't focus like this,"

you were correct, in fact, you were certain no one in all of sumeru could ever focus on a single task when a man such as alhaitham himself, no matter how aggravating at times, would look at someone with such hunger in his eyes, a gaze filled to perpetual sharpness.

you do not want him to stop, you want him to do more.

"you seem to enjoy it," the confidence in his tone could not be any clearer, "very much."

he tilts his head to look at you, the brush of his lips against your cheek making you whimper, the following scrape of his teeth hovering against your jawline tempting out a shiver after such tenderness.

a sensual thrust of his hand repeatedly curls and digs into you, knocking the air from your lungs as you clench as strongly as you could around a single digit, his finger rubbing just so against the furthest, most delicious spots of your walls that it increased the force and pressure on your tight belly from the inside.

how long until you break?

his finger wiggles inside, the touch exquisitely precise, awfully confident, and you found yourself in an inescapable position, impossible to hold yourself back from sinking into the sensation of feeling him. just having him touch you.

"you want me to put another finger?" he kisses your cheek tenderly.

your skin holds against sweat and desperation, tickling the hairs on your skin as a satisfactory pleasure could be felt ebbing and flowing through the entirety of your body.

"yes, please another," you breathe, greeting the scribe with a little more than soft excitement in your voice— but you sounded so angelic to him, your voice silk alike, drowning in a river of solace.

shameless in his doings, alhaitham smirks against you, his lips a hairbreadth away from your ear, "really? you think you got that?"

you nod in certain ecstasy, keeping one hand wrapped around his wrist as he pleasures you, stretching and burning into your hole.

the scribe remains confident in wanting to embed his touch, all of it, on you— not only that but his scent too, he needs your body to pick it up until his aura webs all over your most delicate spots naturally, nothing comparing to the feeling of fullness he gives you.

©2024 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[temple-kharis]

Generative AI is NOT Worship

I saw a post about this but it was written by a fucking "radfem" FART, and I don't want to give that POS the time of day. So I'm going to make my own.

Generative AI does NOT please the gods. If you make one of those devotional digital offerings and you use AI to do it, you're spitting in the face of the gods. They do not accept it.

Generative AI steals from actual artists (and I'm saying this as a devotee to a god of thieves), it scrapes protected data from all corners of the web. It permanently damages the connections in the brain for recall, creativity, and cognitive processing. And it poisons and harms the very earth we are supposed to honour.

It doesn't matter if the art you create yourself is "good" by some sort of scholarly pseudo-objective standard or not. It is good simply for the fact that you made it yourself out of the love and honour of the gods. It could be a stick figure with stickers all around it, but the fact that YOU made it - not prompted some AI slop - means that it is worthy in the eyes of the gods as a good offering.

You should put your energy, your feelings, your mind into your offerings. Something Generative AI can NEVER do.

[leighsartworks216]

Back At The Beginning

Dragon!Sylus & Lemurian!Reader

Wrote this thinking haha cute dragon-mermaid meeting, and then realized it could be a prequel to Fishing Trip... y'all I think I accidentally made another reader-character-oc

Warnings: silly, first meetings, lemurians, merfolk, pov third person, it/its pronouns for reader-character, injury, blood, drowning, swimming, implied kiss

Word Count: 1,691 (nice)

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He barely sucks a breath in before the crash. The water swooshes up around him. His body plunges into the depths at the center. The moon is dark tonight - there is no direction to guide him to the surface. All around him: inky black, burning his eyes.

His wings are useless. They could perhaps be used as fins to propel him, but he's never tried before. Never been in the ocean before.

The young dragon writhes and squirms like prey caught in a spider's web. There's no traction to gain. Nothing he can sink his claws into. His tail lashes about in wild arcs.

Something giggles beside him. He stops sharply, trying to follow the sound. Eyes burning from the salt. Hearing muffled. His heart races furiously. Bubbles rise from his nostrils in the darkness.

Something swooshes past on his other side. His tail whips around. He just misses it. He can feel the current behind it.

He curses to himself. He doesn't have time for this! He needs to get to the surface! He needs to find some dry land to haul himself onto so his wings can dry! So he can fly again - fly back home!

He tries to ignore whatever is surrounding him - for as terrifying as the prospect feels - to find the top of the water.

"That's the wrong way." It giggles again.

A rush of bubbles from his nose. They shimmer and refract some mysterious source of light, multicolored even in the gloom. And then pop. His lungs are beginning to strain. He rotates oddly and tries again.

"Still the wrong way!" it chimes. "Can't you tell up from down?"

A swish of water at his side. He claws at it on instinct. They scrape against something fish-like, but he causes no damage. Makes no impact on the creature.

It giggles again. The sound infuriates him in the same breath that it entrances him. He's losing energy trying to attack it. Each burst loses more of his oxygen. His body moves slow through the water, trying to follow his instincts. But his balance is all off.

He can sense the creature's presence underneath him. Feel its eyes watching him. "Are you a land creature?" He tries not to react when it touches his wing. He can't afford to. "A sky creature?"

He kicks his legs. Moves his arms as though he's digging through rock. He expects another laugh, but hears none.

"You can't swim?" A swirling current around his body. A ribbon of water that follows the creature's movements. "You can't breathe..."

No, he can't, and he can feel his chest burning. It aches, like a tunnel fit to collapse in on itself. He stubbornly pushes onward.

"Creature, I can help you," the voice says. "I can give you the ability to breathe underwater."

He shakes his head. He can't see. All he can do is hope he's going the right way. Judging by the creature's increasing anxiety, flitting about him, he isn't.

"You cannot hope to reach the surface like this! You're much too deep, creature." A soft touch at his arm. His instincts are faster this time. His claws catch skin. Tear apart flesh. Blood puffs into his face. The creature pulls away with a cry of pain.

But it doesn't leave.

"Please, creature, you're too deep! You'll drown! You're nearer the bottom - you can't reach the surface!" It swishes and whooshes and circles him nervously.

He shakes his head again, but the last bubbles of his air float away from him.

The creature makes a distressed sound. "Creature, I hope you can forgive me for saving your life!"

He feels the water shift in front of his face. Senses the large body of the creature directly in front of him. A soft touch to his lips. And they're gone - moved away.

It's like his lungs are suddenly full. As though fresh oxygen has entered his body in the same moment he gasps in a mouthful of salt water. He stills in his shock. Takes another tentative breath, and another.

A light appears in the depths. An orb of yellow, cradled in the palms of a humanoid-looking thing. He stares at it. Rakes his eyes over its features: its wide eyes and the slope of its nose; its slightly parted lips and its hair; the fins protruding from the tips of its ears and the gills at its throat; the large, shimmering tail steadying its body in the water.

"Creature? Are you breathing?"

He swallows and is surprised it doesn't taste of sand and sea. He nods unsurely.

Its lips curl upward at the sides. "I saved you! You're welcome!" It giggles with glee as it swirls around him. He can see it now, follow its powerful body with the light it carries. The scales of its tail shine even in the waning light left behind. It comes back in front of him, upside down, its body stretched over his head. "Come on! I'll show you back up."

Up. Right. He forgot he was trying to surface, so caught up in this strange creature's behavior. It nods its head in a direction - presumably up - and takes the lead in guiding him. It watches carefully as he finally shakes off his stupor and does his best to follow. It tilts its head curiously.

"You don't swim well. You have fins, why don't you use them?"

Fins? Is it talking about his wings? They trail pitifully behind him, limp and weighed down in the water.

"You can speak now, creature," it says. "The spell only lasts until you breathe air again, but it allows you to talk down here, too."

Speaking feels strange. He doesn't push air through his vocal cords, but water. It's thicker, somehow. "They're-" He grunts at the sensation and the effort of his poor swimming. "Not fins."

"No?"

"They're wings," he corrects bluntly. "What are you?"

"I'm Lemurian. What are you?"

"A Fiend."

They're nearing the surface. He can feel the change in pressure. It eases off his chest, makes speaking feel lighter. It must feel it, too. Even in what little light provided, he can see its chest rising and falling differently, like it's changed how it breathes to compensate.

"Do Fiends have names?" it asks.

He grunts.

It giggles, teasing, "Is that your name?" It makes a deep mimic of his voice.

He shakes his head, hair swishing in the surf. "It's... Stayrus," he mutters.

It tests it on its tongue. Purrs it like a melody. "Mine is Y/N."

He doesn't repeat it. His attention is set on the glow of the orb hitting the surface of the water, like a ceiling. He eagerly breaks through. Gasps deep lungfuls of air, expecting to cough out buckets of water; none comes out, save for the lapping waves that roll into his mouth. The creature pokes its head out with him, though with far greater hesitancy.

"Hmm, there's land that way," it murmurs. He follows their gaze, but he sees nothing. "I can help you get there, Stayrus. Please don't drown again."

Its body moves like a serpent in the surf. It moves silently, smoothly, through the water. He splashes behind, only following to reach dry land faster. He's sick and tired of being wet, especially now as the cold night air brings a chill that he'd normally greatly appreciate.

As they get closer, the seabed comes up to meet his feet. Soon his toes can reach. Then his full feet, and then his upper body is rising from the water with each step. The Lemurian stops just shy of that phase, appearing to sit on the soft sand to watch him leave. He groans with relief as he stretches his wings out. They're absolutely soaked. He inhales deeply, breathing in the air now that there is no risk of drawing in water with it.

The metallic scent of blood tickles his nose. Back on land, his senses are sharp and well-defined. He knows the blood is behind him. When he turns, he sees the creature in the water. The light shines on its arms. It reveals a scratch on its forearm - four in fact. Where he managed to land an attack on them. It bleeds sluggishly. The dark ichor stains the even darker water, moving with the tide. The creature smiles innocently up at him.

It bleeds out because of his doing, yet smiles like that. He hurt it, and yet it helped him anyway; cast some magic on him so he wouldn't drown and led him back to dry land. It shows kindness in the face of his destruction.

He releases a long breath. He would be better off making the slow trek back home. Leave it here to watch him disappear into the distance. So why is this young dragon stepping back into the water until it reaches his waist?

"Show me your arm," he gruffs.

It blinks up at him, but obliges. "What for?"

He stares hard at the open wound. The skin is jagged at the edges. Muscle underneath torn. He damns his weakness as he hovers his gauntleted hand over the injury.

Ashen tendrils of red and black extend from his palm and fingers. They circle its arm, swirl around just as the creature had done to him in the water. It watches in fascination as its skin stitches together, healed almost perfectly. When he draws his hand back, it excitedly traces over where the scratches had been, ball of light floating on the water's surface. It looks back up at him in awe.

"That's incredible, Stayrus! Thank you! Now I won't have to worry about sharks tonight." It giggles. He ignores the soft feeling in his heart as he turns away and trudges back up the beach. "Oh! Goodnight!"

When he's neared the grassy edge of the beach, where it transforms from sand to dirt, he's compelled to look back. He sees nothing; no light, no creature, no moon. He stares in the darkness for a while, but nothing disturbs the water. He shakes his head and navigates home, soggy wings trailing behind him.

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @that-lost-one @always-just-red @22carolina08 @lunaizhere @sine-nomine0 @beautifulthingsiadore @lalaluch @nothankyew @terriblesoup @jeleryyy @nezuswritingdesk @anaathxma @ssushi @mina7820 @monophobix @mentaltrouble2201 @mskaylacharite @nerrivm @ichosesparklingtorment @schnittled @animegamerfox @flamedancer13 @rebloggingislove @moonlight-inthe-sea @persepolys @satorubabee @sleepykittycx @moon-inthe-sea @perla-drg @leiakitty

[lostintransist]

Broken Beyond Bearing | Part 6

-. —- / .-. . -.-. —- .-. -.. … / . -..- .. … - / ..-. —- .-. / …. . .-.

Part 1 found here | AO3

Johnny watches. He’s good at it. Not many notice that only ticks above his bright smile and well-placed nose are even brighter eyes. Oh, they notice the color, hard to miss his shade of blue, but they missed the brilliance behind them. Quick and sharp, they’ve served him well. Distraction as well as detection.

You stomped from the truck before he could put it in park, slamming both the car and front doors. Johnny followed more sedately as he thought about what you had said. Two weeks without a food delivery, and no one answering their calls. Why didn’t you leave a message? Had you tried Kate? She would have said something, wouldn’t she?

One of the reasons he earned the nickname Soap came from how well he could clean a room. Now that he has you back, he can take in more than the absence of wife. On the couch sat the laptop they had given you, sitting at an angle atop a blanket that spoke of an imminent return. Everything from the cans moldering in the bin to the slight wrinkles in your neatly made bed spoke of intentions.

You had stomped through the house and right out the back door. His coat lay tossed across the counter. A rhythmic scraping of plastic against snow tells a tale. Interesting.

Two weeks without a delivery shouldn’t have sent you sliding down the mountain in your boots. They had left the second vehicle for you, keys hanging in the kitchen. Stepping into the space now Johnny’s eyes were drawn to the hook. It looked exactly as they had left it. So interesting. Johnny can feel his brows pull together as pieces slide around in his mind. It almost makes sense. The picture is forming despite the missing bits.

Turning, he opens the freezer and finds it half full with neatly wrapped hunks of frozen meat. They reminded him of gifts, all packed in white paper and tape. Two roasts and a pork shoulder stared out at him from among frozen veg. You didn’t eat much, and there was enough food in the house to keep you sustained for more than two weeks. Pulling out a roast, Johnny set about getting dinner ready, keeping one ear out for you. With the other, he pops in a headphone and calls Kate. The roast is in the crockpot, and the potatoes on the counter before she answers.

“Laswell.”

Kate’s voice is professional but tired. She had been neck deep in a project they weren’t involved in for months now. It had to be something about you.

“Kate, got a question for you.” Johnny lets his voice reflect a calm happiness.

“If this is about the extra C4—”

Johnny cut in, letting the anger that burned in his bones out. The knife he had pulled from the block to cut potatoes caused his hand to ache from the grip he had on it.

“This is about our new wife, Kate.”

The electronic buzz of silence in his ear told so many tales.

Realizing she wouldn’t be volunteering any information, Johnny takes charge of the conversation. Gently resting the knife on the counter, he lets his body move, finding the cutting board, and begins washing the potatoes.

“Did you know she’s allergic to peanuts?”

Papers rustle through the line.

“No, I didn’t.” Kate bit the words out.

“Why can’t she drive, Kate?” He sets each clean root to the side. Johnny imagines this conversation as a series of tugs on a spider’s web.

“Obviously she was never taught, Soap,” Kate replied, exasperation floating her words.

“She took herself to town on foot because the food deliveries stopped. There is food in the house, but it requires cooking. A peek in the garbage tells me she spent the entire time on canned or fresh food. I’m not a good cook, Kate, but even I know how to throw a roast in a slow cooker. Where did you find her?”

“Soap,” Kate dragged out the word like he would give up his questioning if she held it long enough. Something clicked in his mind. Kate wouldn’t have found her in any normal way. Betas were rare these days and Kate never ended up on projects that didn’t involve some level of fuckery. Chopping the veg, he loads them into the crockpot and dumps enough spices that Simon would whine about a stomach ache if he were here.

“Kate,” her name crunched between his teeth. He growled out his next words. “What the hell happened to her?”

Leaving time and heat to do their work, Johnny turns to the wood-burning stove.

He prepares it while waiting for Kate to navigate the mental hurdles of telling him the truth. Johnny wonders about you. If he were to put you on canvas, it would be a study in contrasts; pastels peering through pockets in watercolor.

“We are two days out from this hitting the news, so keep your mouth shut until after the story drops. Your security clearance isn’t high enough for most of this.” Kate muttered a bit more that he almost missed, “Neither is John’s, for that matter.”

His clearance was pretty damn high, what could have happened that required a higher clearance than what John had currently?

“Better talk fast, then, Kate.”

She does, and with each new sentence, Johnny thinks he is going to be sick.

The stove is cool, and cleaning the ash gives him something to do while he listens to the horrors Kate and her team found in the facility where you had been kept.

While spring had started to unfurl with the appearance of dandelions in the valley, winter reigned here for at least another month before spring could creep beneath the drifts. Lighting a small pile of kindling inside the black stove, Johnny continued to listen. Feeding the hungry licks of heat, he made his plan.

Snagging his coat, Johnny popped down to the truck.

“So let me see if I understand this. You’re telling me that betas lost their rights thirty years back and then were shuttled off in droves to facilities that experimented on them to the point that they discovered the calmers that are being pumped into the water system.” Johnny rubbed the inner corner of his eyes. “But you don’t have her full chart? You don’t know what happened to her?”

Kate sighed, and the distinctive sound of a lighter flaring to life reached him. He pulled open the back door of the truck and shouldered his pack.

“I thought your wife wanted you to quit,” Johnny commented lightly.

“My wife has given me a pass until this is all wrapped up,” Kate replied darkly. “No, we don’t have her full chart. What we do have are records of nearly 6,500 dead betas, and being realistic, there are probably three times that many between all the branches of Scorpio. All we did find was the most recent data about your wife, and it didn’t tell us much, only the drugs they pumped her with the two days before the raid.”

Johnny stared at the stitching of the back seat as he absorbed this information.

“Is there anything else I need to know about our wife, Kate?”

The silence is telling.

“Nothing I can tell you. If she shares anything about what happened to her, would you let me know? We are going to have to recreate Scorpio’s records.”

“I’ll let you know.” Johnny ended the call with a tap to his headphone. He slammed the truck door, watching the body of the vehicle rock under the force of his anger. When he could breathe without vomit staining his throat, he headed inside.

Shutting the front door tight to keep the slowly warming air, he rested his pack on the back of the couch. Digging through the tightly packed clothes, he unearths his sketch book and removes the wall stickers he had found in a tiny shop outside of a base he couldn’t recall the name of. Sprinkles, for you. Johnny set them on top of your laptop. Everything is shoved back into the bag as best he can manage; it gets left by the stairs to deal with later.

With that settled, he headed to the back door to invite you inside. The interior had reached an almost cozy temperature. The sheriff’s office had refused to give up your phone, coat, and the cards that clearly stated your name. John would call to rip the entire office a new asshole once he heard what had happened.

Johnny watches you. Feet spread wide, head down, shoulders tense under your shawl, and your fist tight around the snow shovel tells quite a tale. Sliding the glass door open, he watches as every speck of you shrinks. When you turn, there is no snarling beta who sent the deputy into a tizzy by singing made-up lines to nursery rhymes or a wife who would rather scar him with her teeth than accept his concern.

He eyes you over dinner. Johnny, with his blue eyes that would cut if they were ice, smiled with closed lips every time he caught your eye. After two weeks of suspicion, it rankled.

“Stop staring,” you mutter the words as you stab a potato that has taunted you. Cleaning was a skill valued in Scorpio. Cooking? Not so much. You didn’t dare open the cooking oven for fear of something happening.

“I missed you.”

The sincerity in his words whispers to you like the demons that lived below the floorboards. An offer too good to be true. The mask that kept you safe in Scorpio, calm and sweet with big, sad eyes, slips as you glare up at him.

“There she is,” he says, sounding pleased.

“Who?” You roll the question off your tongue with the hesitance of a base jumper on their first dive.

“The beta who nearly sent a deputy to murder with nursery rhymes.” Johnny smiled with his whole face, cheeks pulled up, and bright eyes wrinkled at the edges.

The heat suffusing through you rivaled that of the stove. You dropped your gaze to the plate before you. Only streaks were left from dinner. There is no good way to soft-step through the differences he had seen today. You were so careful before they left to play that submissive, quiet beta that everyone could accept. Nearly a decade of pretending slid off, bleached by the sun, and cleaned the crows that kept you company.

With a wink, Johnny stood from the table. He took your plate and set them in the sink.

“Let me take care of those!” You squeak out as you jump to your feet.

Johnny gives you a lopsided smile and steps out of the way. Turning on the water, you focus on the sensation of the water and soap on your skin and not the heat of him at your back. He stays for longer than you anticipated, but after the first plate is clean and placed in the drying rack, Johnny leans in and places a kiss on your temple.

“I’m going to shower. You’re up after me, I doubt the sheriff’s office took good care of you.”

His scent lingers in your nose and in the air even as he walks away. The shower is still running when the dishes are done. Deciding that the suggestion was a good one, you head to your room. The main bathroom is opposite your room. Turning left from the kitchen, you spot Johnny’s open pack, shirts spilling from the gaping top. Without a thought, you snag one. It is nestled neatly under your pillow.

You don’t think about the shirt again until you are tucked behind the bathroom door, Johnny and his body wash clogging up your throat. He had knocked on your door when he had finished up. The warm water washing over your skin prickled with a tad too much pressure. Something was off. Turning your back to the spray, you let your hands wander, sometimes your beta side couldn’t come out and tell you what you needed, but you had learned to let it out by degrees.

Both hands settle at your breasts, kneading and plucking at nipples. This remains your focus for long enough that you start shifting from side to side, needs rising. Running your tongue over your teeth, you decide you can indulge this need, but you need to be clean first. When you reach for the soap, since you did your hair before the internal unease had escalated, the one wet from Johnny’s hand is the one you lathered into your cloth.

The scratch of the rag on your skin escalated the need settling between your nerves. Cleaning to your toes, you rinse off and wring out the cloth. Adding more soap you focus on cleaning between your legs and ass cheeks. Bringing the rag back to the stream of water, the mixed scent of slick and Johnny’s body wash simultaneously causes a rush of need and a stream of terror to rocket through you.

Fuck. Your heat was coming.

Broken Masterlist | Masterlist

@lucienofthelakes @gg-trini @talia-the-gemini @thriving-n-jiving @z-wantstowrite @asialovesyou09 @literallegendicon @canthavetoomuchchaos @reinekoya @jsptmoche @demothers-empty-blog @hbaasaad @sun-daddy-yoriichi @wiciclesatmidnight @kaoyamamegami @little-mini-me-world @corvid007 @skeletonsucker @feyresqueen @dreamland08 @sweetybuzz25 @minxx3d @ovxlovxy @night-shadowblood-writes2

[evilgwrl]

TF 141 x Reader (Apocalypse!AU)

Immune: Ten

WARNING: This is a 18+ Poly!141 series (MDNI)

CW: ANIMAL DEATH, gore, angst, kinda fluff at the end??? but very depressing chapter

Taglist: @echo9821 @beebeechaos @h3art3at3rr @johannxseb @cndy-l0v3 @nylluns @pomegranategum @tapioca-marzipan

Masterlist

GUYS I APOLOGISE THIS IS NOT AS GOOD AS I WANTED IT TO BE BUT IM HOPING TO FILL THE VOID WITH A SMUTTY NEXT CHAPTER </3

His vision was a stain of burnt umber, ropes of sepia blurring into blown pupils, eyes flushed with demand as he stared down at you. His cheeks were ample with a delicate rose hue, blonde lashes dipping into his skin every time he flickered down to your spread frame, your own lips flushed with the blush of the staggering movements between you two.

Silky webs of spit connected the two of you even when apart as exploring hands fed into the pillowy flesh of your thighs, groping at anything he could get a hand on. Your mind was fluttering, brain wracking with static as he felt over you, paying attention to every inch of delicate skin.

There was a harsh crack from the sky, a zip of thunder bellowing rage against quickly darkening sky as Daisy whinnied, trotting anxiously around her paddock, tail swishing as she bucked back and forth on her hooves. Cecil’s neigh sounded tortured as a strike of lighting broiled before zapping down into a patch of grass beside him, hind legs rearing as his body leapt over the lowest part of the fence.

You pulled away from Simon, a confused expression on your face as you pushed him aside, feet planted on the ground. Panic struck you as you noticed the lack of the stallion, a pained whine in the distance as you swore under your breath, burning legs scuffing against the dirt as you yanked open the gate, feet trampling onto Daisy in a rush as she bucked slightly.

Heavy feet kicked her hind as Ghost called out from behind you, the horse already trailing into the depths of the forest after the escapee. Bruises accompanied your skin as your legs slapped on the un-saddled horse, a wince leaving your lips at every stride Daisy galloped.

Trees succumbed to a blur as you whistled, mouth in a permanent ‘o’ as you called out for Cecil, a distressed huff leaving the mare as she darted between florae. The familiar crackle of tar sounded against her hooves as you reached the main road, your eyes clouded with desperation as you slowed down, frantically searching.

A scurry in the bushes alerted you as you listened to the sound of hooves scraping against the ground in the distance, a frantic neigh seeping into the wind as you hopped off Daisy, whistling for her to follow the road home as you sent her off, apprehensive feet trailing to the sound.

Fingers wrapped anxiously around a large rock as you ducked in between branches. The crackle of whines rode through the air, the disturbed tone of the horse’s pitch sending a surge of chills down your spine, paralysing you as you took in the sight.

Hot metallic rushed into your nostrils, pools of blood dribbling through an open wound, elongated talons of bone sticking out of the stallion’s leg as he let out a guttural whinny, eyes wide as his head slapped across the ground anxiously, teeth jutting with every agitated breath.

Your knees were weak, limbs slipping into a coma as you collided with the ground, your own flesh meeting the burn of twigs as you dragged yourself across the floor, a harsh sob sounding from you at the mangled, broken leg before you.

The horse was restless, snout slipping between inches of dirt as he attempted to rise, his weight fleeting to gravity as the sight of crumbled ivory dug into untouched skin.

“Fuck- I’ve got you, baby, I’ve got you,” you wept, hands resting against his muzzle as you attempted to comfort him, pure agony displayed through the shiver of his muscles, twitching under broken flesh, fur saturated in the stench of crimson.

Your eyes were wild, stray tears pooling at your cheeks as you stroked the animal before you, pure misery evident in brown eyes as he huffed. “I’ll be back, I’ll be back, ok? Mumma’s gonna help you.”

Your voice was frantic, the crack of heartache slipping into every syllable as your chest wracked. Your legs felt useless, skidding against the road, trickles of blood pooling down your broken flesh, batters of broken skin tingling with irritation as you paid no mine.

The vision of the house before you was stagnant, the blear sight connecting like puzzle pieces as you blinked, sliced corium staining the handle rails as you tripped inside, mangled body colliding with the floor as you struggled to stand. Soap stood up in confusion, taking in the flummoxed sight of you.

“Bon, what’s wrong?”

“I need a gun and the car keys.”

“What fo-“

“I need them now,” you screeched, throat pained with desiccation as you rubbed desperately at your cheeks, skids of blood flushing your skin as you let out a pained sob. The Scotsman was quick, hurrying you to the car as you slammed the door shut, the chug of the engine crying into a ruptured breeze, the sound of lighting barely monitoring through you as you drove, hot tears cascading into the mixture of ichor painted upon you.

Soap was in a flurry, calling out to Gaz, who had found Daisy whining out front, quickly securing her away. Ghost had attempted to trail after you when you bolted off but lost sight, instead fixing the broken fence that had caught on Cecil’s hoof.

The commotion from inside hicked in Price’s chest as he fled down the stairs, only missing you as he watched you leave.

“What the bloody fuck is going on?” the Captain huffed, eyes brushing against bushy brows.

“She came in, covered in blood, screaming for a gun and the car keys-“

“And you didn’t think to go with her?” Ghost spat, storming into the house.

“She wasn’t waiting for anyone- didn’t even shut the car door as she drove off-“

The road in front of you was a blur as you followed the sickly trail of blood that leaked through an opening in the bushes, the ignition still running as you hopped out. You clambered through the bushes, wincing as a branch snagged against your cheek.

The silence was deafening as you whined, pushing through a broken web before stumbling upon the severed horse in the distance. Your scream entangled in your mouth, trapped between your tonsils as you subsided to the forest floor, the grunts of the dead stampeding across the stallion’s body, hisses of torn flesh seeping with blood as its head buried into the thickness of crimson-coloured mud.

“Get off him,” was supposed to leave your throat, but nothing did. Your whine was agonising, scorching through the grounds around you as the carbon steel slipped from your fingers, your hands shoving at the zombies surrounding the corpse as you grabbed the rock you had dropped earlier, pummelling into the rotting skull of one.

The sickly scent of mould infiltrated you as you gagged, straddling the body of another as you thrashed down on it, the squelch of a blackening brain migrating into the crevices of the miniature boulder. Your lips were pulled back in a snarl as you kicked the final deformity from your horse, battered hands colliding with the brittle bones that supported a decayed cerebrum.

Your pummels were never-ending, the rock scraping into the dirt as the monster turned to mush, nothing but the crumble of perished organs left. Your wail was excruciating as you collapsed against the dead horse, his body mangled into a pile of broken flesh, wounds tethered against fur as his eyes rolled into a lifeless state.

The rain that followed was harsh, pooling around you in an infested state as you struggled to breathe, your lungs popping with turmoil as you bawled, thick hiccups catching in your throat.

Your body collapsed into a tender frame as you struggled, clambering to save the horse that was already dead. “L-Let me go,” you wept, as heavy arms only took you away. There was a soft rustle against your hair, fingers running through the locks of your hair to comfort you, the sound of a gunshot going off in the distance.

Your eyes were struck, by blank images of massacred limbs and stolen innocence coerced you to stay awake as you stared aimlessly down the road, your ears static as Ghost attempted to talk to you, his hands tucked around your waist.

You didn’t reply.

You were grief-stricken, barely able to make it up the stairs as you were undressed, wounds seeping across broken skin as you barely hissed when a rag was pressed against it. You were defunct, your eyes void of nothing as your lips folded into a thin line.

The bare warmth of the water did nothing for you as Price lifted you in. Unheard words passed through you as you watched him walk away, your head slipping under, and your eyes still open.

You didn’t want to close them. Not now, not again. It was a deadly compilation. Flickering images of the gruesome scene haunt you with every blink. The water had turned a murky pink, dirty liquid sloshing as hands scorned under your arms.

“Sweet’art, I need you to answer me. I need you to tell me if you swallowed any blood or flesh.”

You only blinked.

“Y/N, I’m serious,” Price snarled, prying open your mouth as you snapped him away.

“No.”

That was enough for him.

The rest of the night had turned to a soundtrack of haze, pushy hands bringing water to your lips as you shoved them away. Your knees were sticky with wet cotton and bandages, your palms stinging with the residue of alcohol. They all came in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead in an attempt to soothe you.

Simon was last, his hands resting against your cheeks as he pressed dry lips into the heat of your skin. You winced as you grabbed his wrist, broken eyes glancing up at him with strains of blood-shot veins.

"Will you stay?"

[buttercandy16]

Asylum

Chapter Three: Tangled Webs

PAIRING(s): Psychiatrist!Agatha Harkness x Patient!Reader x Inmate!Rio Vidal

SUMMARY: Wrongfully imprisoned, Reader becomes the obsession of Agatha, a cunning psychiatrist, and Rio, a fiery inmate. Together, they’ll ensure she’s theirs—forever.

WARNING(s): Obsession, Manipulation, Violence, Confinement, Madness, Dubcon, and Betrayal.

A/N: Getting impatient so I've written the chapters a little bit longer this time, lol. 💜💚

The asylum corridors stretched endlessly, the hum of fluorescent lights casting an eerie glow against the pale walls. You walked with purpose—or as much as you could muster with the guards escorting you back from another monotonous group therapy session. The others had shuffled out, their faces blank or twitching with nervous energy, but you had lingered, reluctant to return to the silence of your cell.

Still, something about this day felt heavier, as though the walls themselves were closing in.

You let your eyes wander to the narrow windows set high in the walls. They offered no view of the outside world, just streaks of faint sunlight blotted by grime. You hadn’t breathed fresh air since the courtyard incident two days ago—the day both Agatha and Rio had laid their first unmistakable claims on you.

Since then, things had only gotten worse.

Agatha was growing more possessive, though she cloaked it under the guise of "help." Her nightly visits were no longer requests—they were commands.

"How are you feeling today?" she would begin, pulling her chair closer to the foot of your bed, her body radiating professional detachment. But her eyes betrayed her, glinting with something far darker.

The questions always began the same. Innocuous. Gentle. But as her visits stretched longer, her inquiries became probing, almost intimate.

"Tell me about your dreams," she asked one night, her voice a low hum that wrapped around you like a coil.

"Why does it matter?" you countered, trying to erect barriers against her quiet, predatory intensity.

"Dreams are where the mind reveals itself, darling," she replied, the endearment slipping from her lips with a slow, deliberate precision.

She leaned closer, her face framed by the cold fluorescent glow. Her eyes, sharp and bottomless, felt as though they could see everything you wanted to keep hidden.

“Is someone here making you... uncomfortable?” Agatha pressed, her tone soft but edged with deadly purpose. “Rio, perhaps?”

Your stomach twisted. Agatha had developed a habit of bringing up Rio unprompted, usually just before slipping in warnings: She’s dangerous. You mustn’t trust her. Tell me if she bothers you.

And then there were Rio’s games.

Unlike Agatha’s cold calculation, Rio’s attention burned. Her obsession wasn’t hidden behind masks of professionalism—it was raw, wild, and impossible to ignore.

She found you in the common areas, corners of hallways, even the cafeteria line. Wherever you tried to blend into the background, she pulled you out, commanding your attention like it belonged solely to her.

“Eat with me,” she demanded one afternoon, her tray thudding down beside yours without hesitation.

You opened your mouth to argue, but Rio was already pulling your chair closer to hers with one long arm, the metal scraping loudly. The eyes of the other patients turned briefly toward you both before averting just as quickly—no one dared cross Rio Vidal.

“Look at you, sitting all stiff like someone’s about to shank you,” she said, biting into an apple, her teeth slicing through the flesh with a sharp crack. “Relax. I don’t bite.”

The sharpness in her grin told you that was a lie.

You focused on your food, ignoring the prickling heat of her gaze as it roamed over you.

“Bet it drives Agatha crazy,” Rio mused suddenly, her voice dropping low. She shifted closer, her breath brushing the side of your face. “The way I keep talking to you. She watches, you know. She always watches.”

“I—what?” you stammered, glancing toward her.

Rio chuckled, leaning back and tossing her apple core carelessly onto her tray. “Sweetheart, don’t play dumb. She’s obsessed with you.” Her eyes glinted with amusement, but her smile quickly turned predatory. “Not that I blame her. You're special. Different from all the broken toys here.”

Your throat tightened as you tried to process her words. Rio was lying—or was she?

“She wants to own you,” Rio continued, her voice dropping lower, dangerously intimate. “Just like I do.”

Her words were like a slap, and your hand trembled as you set down your fork.

“I don’t belong here,” you whispered, your voice cracking.

Rio’s expression shifted for a split second, something unreadable flickering behind her confidence. Then, she reached across the table, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.

“That’s where you’re wrong, mi amor.” Her grin turned wicked. “You’re exactly where you need to be.”

When Agatha appeared in your doorway that night, you weren’t surprised. The light in the hallway framed her figure, tall and commanding as ever, though there was something different in her expression—a tightness in her jaw, an edge to her gaze.

"May I come in?" she asked, though you knew it wasn’t a question.

You nodded reluctantly, retreating to the far corner of the room as she stepped inside.

Agatha closed the door with deliberate care before turning her full attention to you. She didn’t sit this time, instead choosing to hover close, her presence suffocating in the small space.

"Rio speaks to you often," she said abruptly, skipping all pretense.

You froze, panic fluttering in your chest. How much did she know?

"She's dangerous," Agatha continued, her tone as cold as the steel walls surrounding you. "Impulsive. Unstable. You must be careful."

“She’s...” You paused, uncertain whether to defend Rio or stay silent. “She hasn’t hurt me.”

Agatha tilted her head, her dark hair catching the faint glow of the overhead light. For a moment, you saw something flicker in her expression—a mix of disappointment and... jealousy?

“Not yet,” she said finally. Her voice softened as she took a step closer. “But she will, darling. That’s what she does. She destroys everything she touches.”

Her hand reached out, brushing against your arm. You tried not to flinch, but your discomfort must have shown because Agatha’s lips curved into a smile, one that was meant to soothe but only made your skin crawl.

“You’re fragile,” she said softly, almost to herself. “You need someone to protect you.”

She didn’t need to finish the thought for you to know who she meant.

Hours later, when sleep evaded you, the sounds of the asylum echoed eerily in the darkness: the distant murmur of a night guard’s radio, the soft cries of another patient two rooms down, the clanging of a metal tray.

And beneath it all, a faint whisper—one growing louder.

When your door creaked open, panic shot through your veins. Your breath caught in your throat as Rio’s familiar silhouette slid into the room, her movements fluid and silent as a cat’s.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you hissed, heart hammering against your ribs.

Rio smirked, leaning back against the wall as she crossed her arms. “Relax, sweetheart. Just thought you might want some company.”

She stepped closer, the dim light from the hallway casting shadows across her face. “She’s got her hooks in you, doesn’t she?” Rio asked, her voice soft yet charged. “Agatha. She’ll convince you that she’s the hero in this little story, but let me tell you something.”

Her hand tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet her burning gaze.

“Heroes don’t exist in here,” Rio whispered. “Only survivors.”

Her lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes before she turned and slipped back into the shadows.

But her parting words stayed with you, an ominous echo of the tangled web ensnaring you.

The days in the asylum passed in a haze of monotony and growing dread, the line between reality and nightmare fraying at the edges. Every corner of the facility seemed to hum with a tension that you couldn’t shake, leaving your skin perpetually prickling as though you were being watched. And in truth, you always were.

Rio’s smoldering presence and Agatha’s calculated grip formed a prison within the asylum itself—a labyrinth with no way out.

But something new had begun to take root within you. Fear, yes, but also something more potent. A gnawing awareness of how deeply entangled you were in their obsession, like prey ensnared in a web woven by two hunters.

You weren’t sure how much longer you could stay sane.

The nightmares began subtly—flashes of Rio’s gaze boring into you, Agatha’s hand brushing yours with possessive care, rooms filled with distorted laughter or walls closing in. But they grew sharper over time.

One night, you startled awake, heart pounding, after dreaming of Agatha standing over you, her hands ghosting down your arms like you were a fragile doll she was piecing back together. Her whisper echoed in your ears even as you sat in the dark, wide awake.

“You’ll always belong to me.”

Even hours after waking, the weight of her imagined touch lingered, sending chills down your spine.

Waking hours weren’t much better. The asylum was never loud, but recently, every sound seemed sharper—every scrape of shoes on the tile, every hushed conversation. Were they talking about you? Watching you?

Rio and Agatha’s presence had grown suffocatingly frequent.

Rio slipped notes beneath your tray at breakfast, always crude but strangely charged: You looked lonely last night, or You don’t want her; you want me.

Then there was Agatha. She circled your mind like a vulture, appearing during therapy sessions, during nighttime "check-ins," and sometimes in your peripheral vision when you least expected her.

"Are you feeling better today?" she asked one morning as she approached your table, her voice dripping with concern but her gaze cool, calculating.

You stammered a reply, but her next words cut through your panic like a scalpel.

"I saw Rio talking to you again," Agatha said, her tone conversational but her meaning clear.

"She’s not dangerous," you found yourself saying before you realized it, almost defensively.

Agatha tilted her head, and something flashed in her expression—a flicker of annoyance, quickly replaced by calm control. She crouched beside you, her long fingers curling lightly around your wrist.

"I understand why you might think that," she murmured, her voice almost hypnotic. "But people like her... they thrive on breaking things. On breaking people."

Your pulse thudded beneath her touch, not from fear this time, but from a growing sense of suffocation.

“I don’t want you speaking with her anymore,” Agatha said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

But that wasn’t something you could promise. Rio wasn’t someone you could simply avoid. She found you wherever you went—pulling you into corners, whispering dangerous secrets in your ear.

One afternoon, she cornered you in the hallway leading to your cell, her smile sharp as she twirled a thread from her sleeve.

“You’re looking... jittery,” she teased, her tone half-amused but tinged with something darker. “Let me guess—Agatha’s been filling your head with her usual crap about me?”

You glared at her but didn’t answer, pushing past her, only for her hand to shoot out and snag your wrist.

“Hey, chica, I’m trying to help you,” she said, her tone dropping as she tugged you back, her eyes boring into yours. “Agatha’s got a nice little fantasy running in her head, and trust me—you don’t want to star in it.”

“What do you want, Rio?” you snapped, the weight of your fear and anger finally pushing words past your lips.

Her expression shifted then, her confidence faltering just slightly. “I don’t want her to own you,” Rio said softly. “I’m not lying when I say you’re special. Too special to let her twist you into something you’re not.”

Her hand loosened, and she stepped back, giving you space to move. But you hesitated, the words she left hanging in the air sinking deeper into your mind.

"Think about it, mi amor. You're not crazy. But staying here? It’ll make you crazy. Trust me—I know."

The cracks in your psyche widened that night, your head spinning as you tried to unpack everything that had been said to you. Agatha’s reassurances, Rio’s cryptic warnings—both felt like chains dragging you deeper into the asylum’s abyss.

But their words weren’t the worst of it.

What terrified you most was the growing sense that they were both right—and both wrong—at the same time.

You pressed yourself against the cold wall of your cell, desperate to reclaim the person you used to be before this nightmare. Your fingers traced the faint scratch marks etched into the walls, left by previous tenants whose desperation had taken different forms.

Would that be you someday?

When a sharp knock broke through the thick silence, you flinched violently.

Agatha entered a second later, her presence commanding as she shut the door behind her.

"You look tired," she said softly, her piercing eyes taking you in as though cataloging every crack in your facade. "Are the nightmares worse?"

You hesitated, and she took your silence as a confession.

“We’ll get through this, darling,” she murmured, sitting beside you on the narrow cot. The bed dipped under her weight, her closeness sending ripples of unease through you.

“You and I?” Agatha continued, her voice quiet but resolute. “We’re going to fix what they broke in you.”

You froze, realizing she didn’t see you as the person you were—but as something she wanted to mold, something broken that she could claim.

When morning came, you expected Agatha’s grip on you to relent, but instead, you found Rio waiting by your cell door, her wild grin sharper than usual.

“Morning, beautiful,” she said, tipping an imaginary hat. “Let’s skip breakfast, yeah?”

You shook your head. “I can’t—”

But before you could protest further, she grabbed your arm and pulled you down the hallway, her pace quick and assured.

“Rio, where are we going?” you hissed, panicking as you glanced around for guards.

She stopped abruptly, spinning to face you and gripping your shoulders with alarming intensity.

“Out.”

The way her eyes burned sent your head spinning.

“I’m getting you out of here.”

Her words, combined with Agatha’s controlling presence, twisted into a knot deep inside your chest. Was escape even possible? Was it what you wanted?

One thing was clear as Rio and Agatha loomed larger in your mind:

You were losing yourself.

_-_-_

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[colouredbyd]

Web Of Secrets

🕸️ spiderman au: remus lupin x fem!potter!reader

part 2 of caught in the web

synopsis : when secrets unravel and danger finds you again, your fascination with Spider-Man only deepens. trouble has always had a way of finding you, but with Remus by your side, steady and unflinching, you begin to realize that heroes come in many forms—and sometimes, they are closer than you think.

warnings: violence ,explosions, injuries, free falling, and mentions of blood. (contains best friend regulus x reader, and potter reader. takes place in modern au)

w/c: 13k

a/n: i absolutly love this <3 also had to put my physics skills to write this

part 1 masterlist

The past week had been painted in shades of crimson and shadow, spider-silk threads connecting moments you could barely believe belonged to you.

It started with rooftops—peeling brick and rusted water towers, the whisper of wind brushing against your cheeks as you waited. He found you there more often now, like it was planned, though neither of you ever admitted it.

Remus would find you there with the kind of ease that felt almost instinctual, a soft smile always lingering on his face. You would talk sometimes. Quietly. He would ask if you were still running around in places you shouldn’t be, and you would laugh and deflect, watching the corners of his mouth twitch upward. Other times, there was silence—comfortable, almost familiar—as you watched the city stretch out like a heartbeat beneath you.

And it was ridiculous, really, the way your heart fluttered like wings caught in a web when he turned his head toward you, when he lingered just a little too long before heading back down the fire escape. 

Ridiculous because you had been here before—years ago, back when Remus Lupin was just your brother’s best friend and you were just a girl with stars in your eyes and scraped knees. You remembered the way you’d watch him from the corner of your eye, the quiet boy with kind eyes who always told you to stay out of trouble.

It was even more ridiculous now, considering the lecture Remus had given you just days ago, all furrowed brows and frustrated sighs, about staying out of Spider-Man's way. 

He had been so stern, so achingly familiar that it had stung more than you wanted to admit. But that was just Remus—always careful, always looking out for you in his own quiet, stubborn way.

James had been livid after your last rooftop rendezvous, pacing back and forth with all the fire of a hurricane. 

Even Regulus had been done with your obsession–fascination after you’d barely escaped last time, his hand still shaking slightly when he’d taken yours and told you to drop it, to let it go.

Yet here you were, knee-deep in dust and shadows, the empty warehouse stretching out around you like the ribcage of some long-dead beast. 

It was reckless, absolutely mental to be here just a night after Spider-Man had torn through the place like a storm. The police tape still fluttered at the entrance, yellow and bold, a warning you had ignored without a second thought. The air still smelled faintly of smoke and concrete dust, and shards of glass glittered like tiny stars scattered across the floor.

Your footsteps echoed as you moved deeper inside, weaving between splintered crates and broken beams. 

It was dangerous, maybe even unforgivable, especially after what had happened. But you couldn’t help yourself. You were drawn to it—the mystery of it all, the rush of knowing you were somewhere you shouldn’t be, somewhere Spider-Man had been just hours before.

Your hands skimmed over metal scaffolding, brushing away cobwebs and collecting fragments of webbing left behind. They glimmered faintly in the pale light, stretching between your fingers with the tensile strength of something unbreakable. You twisted one carefully around your finger, feeling its strange elasticity, its softness. 

Proof that he had been here. Proof that you were just one step behind him.

But before you could examine further, the distant wail of sirens cut through the silence, sharp and sudden. Panic shot through you like ice water, and you scrambled to your feet, heart thundering in your chest. 

You shouldn’t be here. Not now, not ever. You spun around, eyes darting across the shadows, searching for somewhere to hide. The police were getting closer, the sound of their radios crackling just beyond the walls.

Without thinking, you bolted toward the far end of the warehouse, weaving through the scattered debris, lungs burning as you ducked behind a stack of forgotten crates. You pressed your back against the splintered wood, breathing hard, ears straining for footsteps. But instead, there was silence—a thick, waiting silence that stretched out like a thread pulled too tight.

Your hands brushed against something hard, and you looked down, eyes widening. 

Tucked between the crates, half-hidden by thick strands of Spider-Man's webbing, was a metal device—small and unassuming, barely the size of your palm, except for the faint glow of purple light blinking from its core. 

It was heavy in your hands when you peeled the webbing off, its surface warm and humming faintly with energy.

The device itself was sleek and metallic, etched with unfamiliar symbols that curved and twisted in patterns that made your eyes ache if you looked too long. 

Right in the center, a snake was engraved in emerald green, coiled and glimmering as if alive. It felt...otherworldly, humming with a power that had your fingertips buzzing. 

This wasn’t ordinary tech. This was something more.

And what was even stranger—it looked like it had been hidden deliberately, tucked away where no one would find it. Not unless they were searching. Not unless they knew where to look.

You swallowed, adrenaline still flooding your veins as you slipped it into your bag, fingers shaking slightly as you zipped it closed. There was no time to think, no time to question. The sirens were getting louder now, and you forced yourself to move, slipping through the shadows and back out into the night before they could catch you.

You slipped back into your room with the kind of silence only practice could perfect. The adrenaline still thrummed under your skin, your breath catching slightly as you locked the door behind you.

 The warehouse, the sirens, the device—they were a flurry of images that blurred together, half-formed and frantic. But before you could even catch your breath, a voice cut through the silence.

"Where the hell have you been?"

You jumped, spinning on your heel to find Regulus sitting at the edge of your bed, arms crossed and eyes sharp with irritation. His posture was deceptively relaxed, but the flicker of tension around his jawline told you enough. 

He had been waiting for you.

"I was out," you replied, shrugging off your jacket and throwing it over your desk chair. "Had to get some things."

His gaze was unyielding, icy and calculated as it roamed over you. "Getting some things," he repeated, voice flat. 

"You were out getting some things at one in the morning? Dressed like that?" He gestured to your dust-streaked jeans and scuffed boots, and you fought the urge to flinch.

You forced a smile, dropping your bag onto the floor with a muffled thud. "You know me, always up to something."

Regulus raised an eyebrow. "That’s precisely the problem."

You ignored him, moving to your desk and shuffling papers around for the sake of distraction. Your heart was still hammering, and you tried desperately to will it into submission. 

The last thing you needed was for Regulus to dig deeper. But before you could even think of diverting the conversation, a metallic clink echoed from the floor, sharp and damning.

Regulus's eyes narrowed instantly. "What was that?"

"Nothing," you said too quickly, bending down to grab your bag. "Just some stuff from class. Projects and...and things."

He was faster. Before you could pull it away, his hand snapped forward, catching the strap and yanking it open. 

The zipper gave way with a harsh rasp, and the device tumbled out onto the wooden floor, glimmering under the low light. The purple light pulsed once, twice, casting eerie shadows across the room.

Regulus stared at it, his expression unreadable. "What the hell is that?" His voice was low, sharper than usual, and laced with something you couldn’t quite place.

You snatched it up, cradling the cold metal to your chest. "It’s for a project," you lied smoothly, the words slipping out before you could think better of it. 

"Something for class. Advanced tech. We’re studying...uh...hybrid mechanics."

For a moment, the silence stretched between you, taut and fragile. Then Regulus released the bag strap, leaning back with a sigh. "You’re going to get yourself killed one of these days," he murmured, the edge in his voice softening just enough to make your stomach twist.

You forced a laugh, tucking the device back into your bag. "Not today," you replied, and he just shook his head, pushing himself off your bed with a fluid motion.

"Just...be careful," he said finally, pausing at your door. His eyes flickered to the bag once more, suspicion simmering just below the surface. But then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him with finality.

The room felt colder without him there, the silence heavy and looming. You exhaled slowly, sinking into your desk chair and pulling the device out once more. It sat in your hands like something alive, humming gently, its purple light flickering with a hypnotic rhythm.

You turned it over, fingertips grazing the emerald-green snake carved into its surface. The symbols etched along its sides pulsed faintly, shifting in patterns that made your eyes blur if you looked too closely. 

It was heavy, impossibly so for its size, like it was carrying the weight of something far larger than itself.

Experimentally, you pressed your fingers along its sides, searching for seams or buttons. Nothing. 

You tilted it, shook it gently, but it gave no hint of its purpose. It was maddening, this enigma of metal and light, and you found your curiosity only sharpening with each failed attempt.

Finally, you leaned back, fingers tracing absent patterns across its surface. It blinked steadily in your hands, as if taunting you, its purple light casting shadows across your walls. There were secrets here, tucked into the crevices of its design, and you intended to uncover every single one of them.

You just needed time.

Sleep came reluctantly, pulling you under only after hours of restless turning and the purple glow of the device still blinking faintly from where it sat on your desk. When you finally surrendered to the weight of it, dreams flickered like shadows behind your eyes, indistinct and lingering.

Morning came harsh and unyielding, sunlight spilling through your curtains and casting patterns across your face. 

Your eyes blinked open slowly, heavy with sleep, before snapping wide in realization. "Shit." The word tumbled from your lips as you shot upright, heart pounding. The clock on your bedside table flashed the time in unforgiving red digits. 

You were late.

You scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over your own feet as you threw on the first clothes you could find. The device lay untouched on your desk, still humming faintly, but you barely spared it a glance as you grabbed your bag and tore out of your room, feet pounding down the hallway. 

The rush of air did little to wake you up, but adrenaline coursed through your veins, sharpening your senses as you navigated through the bustling corridors of Hogwarts University.

Students milled about, unconcerned and unhurried, and you weaved through them with practiced ease, barely avoiding a head-on collision with a group of first-years before turning a sharp corner. 

That was when you nearly barreled straight into him.

Remus was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a lazy sort of grin playing on his lips. "In a bit of a rush, aren’t we?" he mused, raising an eyebrow as you skidded to a stop just short of him.

You huffed out a breath, brushing stray hair from your face. "You try being late to McGonagall's class and see how fast you run," you shot back, and he laughed—soft, warm, the kind of laugh that curled around your heart and squeezed just a little too tightly.

"I’m fairly certain she’d just take my head off," he replied, pushing off the wall and falling into step beside you. 

"And what’s little Potter been up to lately?" he asked, voice dropping into that familiar, teasing lilt. "I hope nothing dangerous, or you know James will die at the fine age of twenty-one purely from stress."

You snorted, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. "Me? Dangerous? I’m an absolute delight."

"Is that what you call it?" he shot back, amusement lighting his eyes. "I’m pretty sure James calls it a heart attack waiting to happen."

You bumped your shoulder against his, the contact brief but grounding. "Well, he’s still alive, isn’t he?"

Remus just shook his head, but his smile softened, eyes flickering over your face in that way that made your stomach twist and settle all at once. "Barely," he replied, voice gentler now. "Just...be careful, alright?"

There was something unspoken in his gaze, something careful and deliberate that made your heart stutter. 

You forced a grin, shrugging off the heaviness of it. "You know me. Always careful."

"That’s exactly what I’m afraid of," he murmured, and it was almost too soft to hear, almost lost beneath the noise of students rushing past. But you caught it. 

You looked away before he could see the blush creeping up your cheeks, focusing instead on the hallway stretching out before you, wondering—not for the first time—if maybe you weren’t the only one who felt the pull of something just beneath the surface.

Class felt like a slow, dragging stretch of monotony. Words blurred on the board, lectures drifting through one ear and out the other as your mind wandered—to the web samples stuffed carefully in your bag. 

You took notes out of habit, the tip of your quill scratching mindlessly across parchment, but nothing stuck. Spiderman lingered at the edges of your thoughts, his webs glimmering silver in the moonlight, the way he seemed to belong to the city itself, like its shadows and its secrets were his to command.

When the final bell rang, you slipped out of the room with the rest of the crowd, your head still clouded with half-formed thoughts. You made your way down the main corridor, and that was when you saw them.

Regulus and Sirius were leaning against a pillar, heads bent close, talking and—laughing? You stopped in your tracks, blinking in surprise. 

The two of them were always a wildfire, crackling and unpredictable. Lately, they had been nothing but sharp edges and bitten-off words, yet there they were, Sirius throwing his head back with a bark of laughter while Regulus shook his head with a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

It was a fragile thing, their relationship—built on the remnants of something broken and hastily stitched back together. 

They had been raised in a house of silence and shadows, where affection was a language spoken in hushed tones, if spoken at all. Years of biting words and icy stares had carved deep lines of distrust between them, but now...now there were moments like this, rare and glimmering, like shards of glass catching the light.

You almost approached them, the instinct to nudge your way in and tease them both flaring up, but you stopped yourself. Whatever this was—this brief flicker of peace—you didn’t want to ruin it. 

So, you turned away, slipping through the crowd and heading down the hall. That was when you saw James.

He strode forward with purpose, eyes locked on Sirius and Regulus, mouth set in a grim line. He grabbed Sirius by the arm, pulling him away from Regulus. 

Sirius' confusion melted into something sharper, more focused, as they turned the corner. You caught a glimpse of Remus waiting for them, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes wary and flickering with something you couldn’t quite place.

You slowed as you passed, catching just the edge of Sirius’ raised voice, sharp and unyielding: "What do you mean when you went there you didn’t find it!"

And James, loud and incredulous: "Gone? You're kidding, right?"

The door creaked open, the familiar groan echoing off the walls of your room as you stepped inside, shutting it behind you with a quiet click. 

The weight of the day settled over your shoulders, and you dropped your bag onto the floor, not caring as it slumped against the leg of your desk.

Your room was chaos—organized, in your eyes, but chaos nonetheless. Stacks of notebooks, scribbled with half-formed ideas and rough sketches of spiderweb patterns, were piled haphazardly across your desk. The walls were papered with articles, photographs, strings of red yarn linking pieces together like some kind of conspiracy theorist's fever dream.

 In the corner, half-taken-apart gadgets lay scattered on your dresser, gears and wires spilling out like entrails. It was a mess, but it was yours.

You kicked off your shoes and crossed to the desk, fishing out the sample of Spider-Man’s web you had collected the night before. You held it up to the light, watching the way it shimmered, silvery and impossibly strong. It stretched and flexed in your hands, thin as thread but sturdy as steel. 

You’d been studying it for hours the night before, picking apart its structure, analyzing its durability, its tensile strength. 

It was unlike anything you’d ever seen—more synthetic than organic, yet somehow...alive. The way it glimmered when light hit it made you think of silk spun by moonlight, delicate but unyielding.

You frowned, fingers brushing over the delicate strands. They weren’t natural, you were certain of that. 

Someone had made this, engineered it. Which meant Spider-Man wasn’t just swinging off buildings and fighting crime solo—someone was behind the curtain, pulling strings, creating tech that defied logic. 

And that someone...they were good. Very good.

Your gaze drifted to your desk, and that’s when you saw it—the device, still where you left it, except now, it wasn’t glowing anymore. 

The soft purple light had dimmed, flickered out like a candle snuffed by the wind. But something else had taken its place. The snake symbol etched onto its surface was glowing now, a vivid, almost hypnotic green, pulsing like it had a heartbeat of its own.

You swallowed hard, nerves and excitement pooling in your stomach as you stepped closer, fingers hovering just above its surface. It was warm to the touch, almost like it was alive, thrumming with energy beneath your fingertips. 

You turned it over, inspecting the smooth metal casing, the strange symbols engraved along its edges, symbols you didn’t recognize—sharp and twisting, like some ancient language long forgotten.

The device was heavier than it looked, the size of your palm but dense, like it was packed with secrets. Light bled from its seams, streaks of neon-purple that pulsed rhythmically, like it had a heartbeat of its own. At its center, the snake emblem gleamed in emerald light, flickering softly as if it were breathing. 

You traced its edges, fingers brushing over the cool metal. It was smooth, almost unnaturally so, with no visible seams or screws. Whoever made it, made it to last.

A thought flickered to life at the back of your mind, reckless and dangerous, the kind of thought that should’ve been smothered the moment it sparked. 

But it wasn’t. Instead, it grew, catching like wildfire, spreading through your veins with a thrill that had you clutching the device tighter. 

If this was Spider-Man’s...if he’d left it there, hidden away behind webs and shadows, then it was important. 

And if it was important, then maybe...just maybe...it could lead you straight to him.

You felt your heart begin to pound, adrenaline sparking through your veins as the idea solidified, reckless and daring and entirely too tempting. A grin tugged at the corners of your lips, and you turned the device over in your hands once more, determination settling like iron in your bones.

If Spider-Man wanted it back, he’d have to find you first.

The sun had barely kissed the horizon when you burst out of your room, heart pounding with the thrill of what you were about to do. 

You grabbed a matchbook, a lighter, and a half-empty canister of fuel from under your bed—leftovers from a very ill-advised experiment last semester that had nearly cost you your eyebrows. Not your finest moment, but at least it left you with supplies.

Your hands moved quickly, scrawling out a note on a bright yellow sticky note before slapping it onto your door. In your messy handwriting, it read:

Gone to make a deal with Spider-Man. 

P.S. James, try not to throw Regulus out the window while I’m gone xoxo

You stepped back, admiring your handiwork with a grin before turning and bolting down the stairs, sneakers slapping against the pavement as you made your way into the heart of the city.

The streets were quiet this early, the sun still stretching its fingers over rooftops and alleyways, casting long shadows that seemed to reach out and grab at your ankles as you sprinted past. 

You ducked under scaffolding, slipped through narrow alleyways slick with last night’s rain, and finally found yourself standing before the rusted gates of an abandoned building. Its windows were shattered, jagged shards of glass clinging to their frames like teeth. The walls were scrawled with graffiti, layers upon layers of paint peeling back to reveal years of rebellion and lost causes.

Perfect.

You squeezed through a gap in the fence, heart thrumming in your chest as you made your way inside. Dust kicked up around your feet, swirling in the soft light that spilled through broken windows. 

The air was heavy, stale with the scent of rust and decay, but you barely noticed as you ascended the stairs, two at a time, until you burst onto the rooftop, breathless and alive with adrenaline.

The city sprawled out before you, stretching towards the horizon in jagged lines of steel and glass. You stood at the edge, toes curling over the lip of the rooftop, staring down at the dizzying height beneath you. 

Cars crawled like ants, oblivious to your presence far above them. You took a breath, the air sharp and cold in your lungs, and pulled the device from your pocket.

It gleamed in the sunlight, the snake emblem glimmering with that same eerie green light. You tossed it between your hands, weighing it carefully before raising it above your head and striking it against the metal railing of the roof.

Nothing.

You frowned, glancing around before trying again, harder this time, sending sparks flying into the air. 

The device vibrated, thrumming beneath your fingers, and you Held it up with a grin. “Come on, Spider-Man,” you whispered under your breath, voice carrying off into the wind. “Let’s see if you want this back.”

A flash of movement caught your eye, and your heart leapt into your throat as a streak of red and blue zipped through the skyline, landing on the rooftop opposite you with a grace that should’ve been impossible. 

He straightened, hands resting on his hips as he regarded you with what you imagined was disbelief behind that mask.

“Well, well,” you called out, tossing the device between your hands again. “There you are, Spider-Boy.”

He tilted his head, arms crossing over his chest. “Didn’t I save you a week ago?” His voice was distorted through the mask, but you could hear the incredulity in it.

You shrugged, holding up the device. “I think this belongs to you, bug boy.”

He stiffened, gaze snapping to the object in your hand. You could almost feel the tension ripple through the air, crackling with electricity. He took a step forward, hands dropping to his sides. “That’s dangerous. You shouldn’t be carrying it around.”

You raised an eyebrow, unbothered. “I’m not carrying it around. I’m giving it back.” 

You tossed it up in the air and caught it again, his shoulders tightening as he watched it flip. “Or, I was. Haven’t decided yet.”

He stepped closer, voice edged with something sharper now. “Look, just hand it over. You don’t know what you’re messing with.”

Your smile turned sharp, taunting. “Maybe I want to find out.”

His head tilted slightly, and you could feel his eyes on you, even through the mask. “You’re reckless,” he murmured, almost like an accusation.

“And you’re dramatic.”

“Please,” he said, voice dropping to something softer. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity bleeding through his tone. But you covered it with a laugh, shaking your head.

 “That’s cute, but I’m not the one swinging off buildings in spandex.”

He took another step forward. “If you don’t give it to me, I’m gonna have to take it.”

You raised the device high, eyes glimmering with mischief. “If you want it,” you called, voice carrying over the wind, “you’re gonna have to catch me.”

Before he could reply, the air shifted. A crack of metal, harsh and jarring, split the rooftop silence, and something massive landed with a thunderous slam. 

You stumbled back, hands instinctively gripping the edge of the building as the ground shook beneath your feet.

Spider-Man moved in an instant, body coiling like a live wire as he stepped in front of you, stance low and defensive. 

The thing—no, the machine—stood ten feet tall, a monstrosity of green and black steel that glinted under the pale morning light. Its eyes, if they could be called that, glowed an acidic green, and coiling tendrils of smoke leaked from its joints. 

The symbol of a serpent, coiled and poised to strike, gleamed from its chest.

It tilted its head, a screech of metal against metal, and the voice that came out was smooth, dripping with venom.

 "Hand over the device," it commanded, green lights flickering as it spoke. "And maybe the girl comes out of this alive."

You stiffened, heart pounding, but Spider-Man’s arm shot out, stopping you before you could step forward. "Don’t," he whispered, voice tight with something raw and desperate.

The machine’s head cocked to the side, almost as if amused. "It’s simple," it drawled, each word stretched out like it was savoring them. "Give her up, and I might let her live. Refuse... and I promise she’ll wish you did."

Spider-Man’s hands balled into fists, and before you could say a word, he turned to you, fingers cradling your face with surprising gentleness. His eyes—hidden behind those white lenses—burned with urgency. 

"You run," he whispered, voice cracking just a bit. "And you don’t look back. Not for me, not for anything. You hide that device. You throw it in the ocean, bury it under a mountain, I don’t care. Just don’t keep it with you. Please." 

His thumbs brushed your cheeks, steadying you, grounding you. "Promise me."

Your breath caught, words failing you for a moment before you finally nodded. He let out a shaky breath, eyes lingering just a heartbeat too long before he released you.

Then he turned, muscles coiling as he launched himself toward the machine with the kind of reckless bravery that took your breath away. You stumbled back, the device heavy in your hands, its pulsing glow seeming to thrum in time with your heartbeat.

And then you ran.

The rooftop shook beneath the weight of colliding metal, the world vibrating with each hit that Spider-Man took. You watched from the narrow edge of the stairwell, heart thrumming painfully in your chest, breaths coming in short, sharp bursts. This was different. 

More brutal, more desperate. The villain, all jagged edges and searing green light, moved with the kind of precision that spoke of ruthless experience.

Spider-Man swung wide, webs slinging him to the far edge of the roof, but the villain was relentless, smashing through concrete like it was paper, claws raking through stone with shrieks of splintering rock. 

You wanted to scream, to yell at him to run, but your voice was stuck somewhere between your ribs, tangled with fear and something deeper—something sharper.

You forced yourself to move, stumbling back down the stairs, feet slamming against each step as you tried to make sense of the pulsing device in your hands. 

It throbbed, slow and steady, the light blinking in time with your heartbeat. You stared at it, the snake symbol flickering with every step you took. 

The further you moved away, the more violently it pulsed; when you edged back up, it softened, almost like it was... responding.

Your mind spun, puzzle pieces clicking together in a rush of realization. 

The villain’s chest—there had been a symbol, the same snake coiled and glimmering, and when Spider-Man had struck him, the light had flickered, just for a second. 

You turned the device over, fingertips grazing the surface, searching for... there. A seam, barely noticeable, like it was waiting to be slotted into something.

The thought was insane. Reckless. Borderline suicidal. And yet…

You were already moving. The rooftop exploded back into view, chaos stretching out in jagged lines of smoke and fury. 

Spider-Man swung left, barely dodging a strike that cratered the concrete, but he caught sight of you instantly. 

"What the hell are you doing? I told you to run!" His voice cracked with something raw—panic, maybe. Fear.

You ignored him, eyes locked onto the villain’s glowing chest. 

"Hey!" you shouted, voice cutting through the violence. Both heads snapped towards you, one masked in crimson, the other gleaming with emerald fire. 

You held up the device, feeling its weight heavy and dangerous in your grip. "You want this?" you called out, voice steady. "Come and get it."

Spider-Man’s curse was swallowed by the metallic roar of the villain charging. You spun on your heel, heart lurching as you sprinted to the edge of the rooftop. 

It was instinct, it was madness, it was pure adrenaline. And it was too late to stop.

Wind screamed past your ears as you flung yourself off the edge, gravity seizing you with ruthless hands. The city stretched out beneath you, endless and uncaring, but you barely saw it. 

You heard the crash of metal as the villain followed, felt the rush of air as he plummeted after you, close enough that you could feel the crackle of energy in your bones. One breath. One heartbeat. 

You grabbed the device, hands steady, and slammed it into the symbol on his chest. 

Light exploded, brilliant and searing, cutting through the sky with blinding intensity. You heard metal shriek, felt the impact of something colossal and unforgiving, and then you were weightless again, falling.

But in that brief flash of light, you saw it: the metal plates groaning and shifting, peeling back like the petals of some iron flower. 

Beneath the fractured shell, his real face almost came into view. You caught the faintest glimpse of a scar on his wrist, thin and silvered with age, before the world splintered around you.

An explosion tore through the air, deafening and absolute, flinging you back with the force of a tidal wave. Smoke and fire curled into the sky, swallowing the fragments of metal and light. There was no time to think, no time to breathe—just the sensation of weightlessness, of falling once more into the abyss.

And then arms—strong, steady—wrapped around you, yanking you from the air. Spider-Man’s grip was unyielding, his body curling around yours as the explosion above bloomed with violet light. 

You buried your face in his chest, his heartbeat thrumming through the thin fabric of his suit, and he held on, even as the world shattered around you.

The world was a smoldering ruin of jagged metal and drifting ash.

 You woke with your cheek pressed against rough concrete, the taste of smoke heavy on your tongue. Blinking against the haze, you sat up slowly, head swimming, and the first thing you noticed was the blood—thick and dark, smeared across your hands and arms. 

It took a sharp, panicked breath to realize it wasn’t yours.

Spider-Man lay sprawled a few feet away, his suit torn open at the ribs, blood pooling beneath him. His mask was still on, but the fabric clung to his face like it was barely holding together, ragged edges soaked through. 

You scrambled forward, knees scraping against the grit and rubble, hands shaking as you pressed them against the wound, desperate to stop the bleeding.

“Hey,” you whispered, voice cracking. 

“Hey, come on, you gotta wake up.” He didn’t move. Fear clawed its way up your throat, sharp and unrelenting. 

Then a crackle of static caught your attention—a tiny device, nearly hidden behind his ear. An earpiece. It was barely clinging to life, sparking with flickers of green light.

Through the static, you heard a voice—muffled, frantic. "Moony? Moony, are you there? We’re coming to you, just hold on, alright? Hold on." 

You frowned, the name tickling at something familiar in your memory, but it slipped away too quickly to grasp.

Your gaze drifted back to Spider-Man, his breathing shallow, his blood warm and slick beneath your palms. You hesitated only a second before your hand moved to his mask, fingers curling at the seam. You could help him. Maybe if you just—

But your hand stopped. Something about the way he’d always kept his distance, always shielded his face, it felt sacred. A choice. 

One you couldn’t bring yourself to break. Swallowing back frustration, you ripped at your own shirt, tearing a strip free and pressing it against the gash in his side, tying it off as best as you could manage. 

Blood soaked through instantly, but at least it was something.

You barely had time to register the footsteps before a cloth was pressed to your mouth, a sharp, sickly-sweet scent flooding your senses. 

You tried to fight it, hands clawing at the grip that held you, but your limbs felt heavy, disconnected.

“Shhh, little Potter,” a voice murmured, low and familiar, dripping with an accent that sent ice trickling down your spine. “You’re alright.”

You caught the glimmer of long black hair before the world faded to black.

You woke to sunlight filtering through blinds, soft and golden against the walls. It was the smell that hit you first—clean linen, a hint of cologne you knew too well. James’s room. 

His old hockey jersey was slung over the back of his desk chair, a heap of his sneakers scattered by the door. You touched your face instinctively, fingertips brushing over the tender stitches at your temple, and everything came crashing back.

Spider-Man. The fight. The explosion.

You were out of the bed in an instant, the covers flying back as your feet hit the hardwood. "Spider-Man," you whispered, the name barely more than breath. 

The door creaked open before you could make it, and Peter slipped inside, shutting it quietly behind him.

“Hey, hey, calm down,” he soothed, hands up like he was trying not to spook you. Your eyes flicked over him, and something odd snagged your attention.

A faded scar, thin and pale, curled over his wrist, just visible beneath the edge of his sweater. Something about it felt familiar, nagging at the edges of your memory, but you couldn’t quite place it.

Before you could question it, footsteps sounded from the hallway, and the door burst open—James, Sirius, Remus, and Regulus all crowding in, faces tight with worry. 

Remus was leaning heavily on a crutch, his head wrapped in thick layers of bandages. He gave you a small smile, strained but real.

“Finally awake, huh?” Sirius asked, attempting nonchalance, but his eyes were sharp, watchful. 

Regulus stood a step behind him, arms crossed, gaze flicking over you like he was checking for injuries. His eyes were darker than usual, rimmed with something you couldn’t quite name—worry, maybe, or something heavier.

"What happened?" you asked, but your mind was somewhere else. "Spider-Man. Is he—"

James’s face darkened, eyes flashing as he stepped forward, voice rising in a way that made everyone else stiffen. 

"Would you stop worrying about some masked hero that means nothing to you?" he shouted, and the room went silent. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white. 

"You keep putting yourself in danger for some vigilante who you don’t even know. I almost lost you before, Y/N. I can’t—" His voice cracked, raw and unsteady, and for a moment, he looked impossibly young. 

"I can’t lose you. You’re my sister. The only family I have left."

His voice wavered, trembling under the weight of unspoken fears. "Do you know what it was like seeing you like that? Seeing you not move? I thought..." He stopped, voice breaking, and his hands flew to his face, palms pressing hard against his eyes. 

"I thought you were gone," he whispered, so quiet it was barely a breath. "I thought you left me too."

He was crying now, shoulders shaking with the force of it. Sirius and Peter exchanged glances, both helpless. Regulus looked away, jaw clenched tight, fists curled so hard his knuckles were white. Remus watched you, eyes full of shadows you didn’t understand.

Without thinking, you reached for James, arms going around him tightly. He clutched you back fiercely, hands grasping at your shirt like if he let go, you’d disappear. His breaths came out ragged, harsh against your shoulder.

 "I was so scared," he choked out, voice muffled. "I can't do this without you. I can't."

"I'm here," you whispered, voice cracking. "I’m right here. I’m sorry, Jamie. I’m so sorry."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes red-rimmed and desperate. "Promise me," he demanded, voice rough. "Promise me you won’t do this again."

Your throat tightened, the words caught somewhere in the ache of your chest. "I… I promise," you murmured, the lie slipping through your teeth like smoke. 

His gaze searched yours for a long moment, something breaking in his eyes before he nodded, pulling you back into his arms, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

For a while, there was only silence. His heartbeat thudding against your ear, his hands gripping you like you were the last solid thing in his world. And you clung back, because maybe you needed it just as much.

The room was hushed, fragile, like a single breath might shatter it all. And then, quietly, your mind snagged on something sharp and sudden. 

You stiffened in his hold, pulling back just enough to look up at him.

"Wait," you whispered, voice barely above a breath. "Wait… how did I get here?"

James stiffened, expression going taut. "Spider-Man's fucking fine," he bit out, sharp and edged with something you couldn’t place. "He got you here when you went unconscious."

He looked away, and you swore you saw Sirius and Peter exchange glances, just for a second. It felt wrong, stilted.

 Your gaze flickered to Remus, but he wouldn’t meet your eyes, just stared resolutely at the floor, fingers flexing around the handle of his crutch.

You swallowed hard, the ache in your chest tightening. Spider-Man brought you back. But then… why didn’t you remember it?

James pulled back, running a hand through his hair with a sigh that carried both exhaustion and relief. “I’m gonna head out. Got a date with Lily.” He glanced at you, softer now. “Regulus will stay with you. Just—please, rest. Take care of yourself.” His voice cracked slightly on the last words, honest and pleading.

You nodded, still shaken, as he slipped out, Sirius following without a word. The silence that settled was heavy but less suffocating.

You turned toward Remus, who leaned awkwardly against the wall, still gripping his crutch. “Hey,” you said quietly. “Where did those injuries come from?”

He shrugged, an easy smile playing on his lips. “Failed prank. Went wrong yesterday. I ended up with a concussion and a mess of bruises.” His eyes twinkled as if daring you not to believe him, but you didn’t press. Something about the way he said it felt like a shield.

You eased down onto the bed, muscles still tense but willing to soften just a little.

Remus nodded at you, gave a tired but genuine smile, and quietly left the room, closing the door behind him.

For a moment, the room felt too empty.

Then the door creaked open again. Regulus stepped in silently, eyes searching yours. Without a word, he crossed the room and pulled you into a careful, guarded hug. Your breath caught. Regulus never hugged anyone. 

It was like breaking a secret code.

“I won’t lecture you,” he said softly, voice low. “I know what you did. It was reckless. Dangerous. But…” He hesitated, then added, “I’m glad you’re okay.”

You blinked up at him, the weight of his rare kindness sinking deep.

Regulus spoke up from the beanbag, patting the spot next to him. "Come on, you’re wasting valuable movie time."

You glanced over, surprised to find him watching you with something close to amusement. "Since when do you want to watch movies with me?"

He rolled his eyes. "You almost died. I’m feeling charitable." He gestured again, a touch more insistent.

You huffed, but joined him, settling into the beanbag with a dramatic sigh. "Fine. But I’m picking the movie."

He groaned. "Just don’t pick one of those horrible rom-coms. I’m begging you."

The night slipped by in laughter and groans, Regulus arguing with you over the plausibility of action scenes and you smacking his arm every time he tried to fast-forward through a "boring bit." 

At some point, he fell asleep, head tipped back against the edge of the beanbag, arms crossed over his chest, mouth slightly open. 

You bit back a laugh at the sight—Regulus Black, passed out during The Princess Diaries. You’d never let him live it down.

But then the stillness settled, and boredom crept in. You nudged him with your foot. "Reg," you whispered. 

Nothing. He was out cold.

Regulus’s breathing evened out beside you, eyelids drooping, until finally, his head lolled to the side, and he was asleep.

You tried to focus on the screen, but the quiet gnawed at you. Restlessness crept up your spine. 

You shifted, sat up, and glanced around the room. James’s desk caught your eye—promising a treasure trove of distractions.

Curiosity overpowered fatigue. You pushed yourself up and padded over, the wooden floor creaking softly beneath your bare feet.

Drawers, papers, tangled cords—nothing exciting. Until your fingers brushed something cold, smooth, and unfamiliar. You pulled it out carefully, heart skipping.

It was sleek and mechanical, shaped like a wrist device but unlike anything you'd seen before. 

Thin webs of synthetic fibers stretched taut from tiny nozzles along its edge—webbing that gleamed faintly under the light.

Your breath hitched. The webbing was exactly like the synthetic strands Spider-Man used.

Hands trembling, you rummaged deeper in the drawer and found a tiny black earpiece, shaped perfectly like the communication devices Spider-Man’s allies wore.

Everything clicked inside you like a lock snapping open. James wasn’t just some reckless friend—he was Spider-Man’s ally.

You dropped the earpiece back in the drawer, slamming it shut harder than you intended. Your hands shook, breath coming fast and shallow. This changed everything.

You swallowed hard, the room suddenly closing in around you. Questions flooded your mind, but one burned brighter than the rest 

If James is Spider-Man’s ally… then who is Spider-Man?

You backed away from the desk, thoughts clashing into one another with dizzying speed. You had to tell someone, ask someone—no, not James. 

Not Sirius. Not yet. You needed to think. 

You slipped back out into the hallway, the silence pressing down on you like a weight. But as you crept back towards Regulus, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the ground had just shifted beneath your feet.

Your feet moved of their own accord, faster and faster, until you were practically running down the corridor, heart slamming in your chest. There was only one place you needed to check.

Remus’s room.

You reached his door, breathless and shaking. It was unlocked, which was strange—Remus never left it unlocked. 

You pushed it open, the hinges groaning. The room was empty, untouched, but the window was open, curtains flapping gently in the night breeze. 

Your mind spun, piecing together fragments of moments you’d never questioned before. 

The bandages. 

The injuries. 

The late nights and the cryptic glances between him and James. 

A thousand little things that seemed trivial until now.

You took a step forward, then another. The room felt colder somehow, empty of the warmth that Remus always carried with him. 

And then—a shadow moved outside the window. A flash of red and blue, streaking across the night sky before landing silently on the window’s edge.

Spider-Man.

You sucked in a sharp breath, stumbling back a step as the masked figure climbed inside, graceful and measured. 

He didn’t see you at first, his back turned as he ripped off his mask and tossed it onto Remus’s desk. Brown hair spilled free, mussed and tangled, and a hand reached up to wipe blood from his temple.

Remus.

It was Remus.

The room spun. You gripped the doorframe to steady yourself, eyes wide and unblinking. He turned then, and the moment he saw you, every ounce of color drained from his face. 

His hands stilled, still streaked with crimson, his gaze locked with yours.

“Y/N…” his voice cracked, barely a whisper. He took a step forward, hand half-extended. “I… it’s not… I can explain.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Remus was Spider-Man. The one who saved you. The one who bled for the city. The one who had cradled you from free-falling off a rooftop just days ago.

Everything shifted. Nothing made sense. 

Remus opened his mouth to say something, but the words never came.

You’re frozen, chest tightening, every breath shallow and ragged as the words land like a hammer: You’re Spider-Man. 

You stare at him—Remus—who’s sitting there, the faint moonlight catching the edge of his face, the same face you’ve known for years. But it’s different now. Everything is different.

“How…” Your voice cracks, barely more than a strangled whisper, “How is this even possible? What the fuck?” The shock is raw, a fire racing through your veins. 

Your heart pounds so loud you’re afraid it might tear right out of your chest. Your hands tremble, and you feel like the ground beneath you has crumbled away entirely.

Remus shifts, panic flaring in his eyes, a flicker of desperation that makes your stomach twist. “I never wanted you to find out like this,” he says, voice thick with something you can’t quite place—guilt, fear, regret. 

His hands twitch at his sides, as if holding back something that’s clawing to escape.

But your voice is sharper now, breaking through the silence, tearing into the space between you. 

“You all lied to me. You knew. James knew. Sirius knew. You all knew and never told me. How could you? How could you keep this from me? From me?” The words spill out in a torrent of betrayal, pain, disbelief. 

Your vision blurs with tears you refuse to let fall, because if you do, you might drown in them.

You feel small, raw, exposed—like the trust you built was a fragile castle, and they’ve shattered it with secrets.

Before you can pull away, his hands are on your face—warm, steady, insistent. His fingers cradle your jaw gently, but there’s an urgency in the way he holds you, as if afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

“Look at me,” he says, voice low, thick with emotion, so fierce it vibrates through your bones.

Your eyes lock with his, and suddenly, everything falls away—the anger, the confusion, the heartbreak. There’s just this moment, fragile and trembling between you.

“I am not Spider-Man right now,” he says, and the words drip like honey but taste of something far heavier. 

“I am Remus. The same Remus who sits with you on rooftops when the city is silent, the same Remus who watches the stars with you, who talks with you about everything and nothing.”

His voice falters for a second, a crack that makes your chest ache.

“I am Remus who cares about you. Not as a hero. Not as a mask. Just as me.” His thumb strokes lightly over your cheek, tracing a path that sends shivers down your spine.

You blink back the storm behind your eyes, the knot in your throat tightening.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me. I’m here,” he breathes. 

“I’m not some untouchable symbol or a secret you can’t reach. I’m the boy who knows your scars, your fears, the way you smile when you think no one’s looking.”

The intensity of his gaze pulls you in, raw and vulnerable. It’s like he’s tearing down the walls between you piece by piece, laying everything bare. 

His honesty is almost too much, a fierce, aching kind of love that makes your breath hitch.

Your throat tightens as your own voice trembles. “But why... why didn’t you tell me? Why keep me in the dark? Was I not enough to trust?” The hurt is suffocating, but beneath it, something deeper pulses—longing, a desperate hope for connection.

He leans closer, voice dropping to a whisper, “Because I was scared. Scared that if you knew, if anyone knew, you’d see me differently. Scared I’d lose you—not just as Spider-Man, but as Remus. And I wasn’t strong enough to carry both.”

You stand frozen, caught in the raw vulnerability radiating from his trembling hands cradling your face. His voice, soft yet weighted with fear, breaks the silence between you.

“I am not Spider-Man without the mask,” he confesses, his breath shaky. 

“That mask… it’s the only thing that makes me feel like I’m something — like I’m not just broken pieces drifting without purpose. Without it, I’m nothing. Just Remus, scared and lost.”

His eyes search yours, wide and desperate, as if begging for understanding. “I never wanted you dragged into my world. I thought if you saw me — the real me — you’d run away. You’d see all my cracks and be gone.”

The tension coils tight in the air, thick and electric. Your heart pounds loud enough to drown out the world, every word tearing through you, yet igniting something fierce beneath the surface.

Then, without warning, his hands tighten around your face, pulling you closer. The fear, the desperation, the raw need in his eyes crash into you like a tidal wave. 

His lips slam against yours—rough, urgent, aching.

The kiss is everything he’s been holding back: fierce and trembling, wild and vulnerable, desperate and demanding. Your breath catches, your body aches for him, and all the unsaid words burn away in the heat of that fierce connection.

He clings to you like you’re the only anchor in his shattered world, and you melt into the storm, fierce and unyielding, knowing this—this chaotic, broken passion—is the closest thing to truth you’ll ever find.

You pull back from the kiss, your breath mingling as your eyes lock with his—intense, searching, vulnerable. 

For a long moment, the world outside this quiet room disappears, leaving only the weight of this shared silence between you.

Then his voice slips out, barely more than a breath, trembling with a mix of fear and humor, “James is gonna kill me.”

A soft laugh bubbles from your chest, surprising even yourself, breaking the tension in the air. 

But then you catch the glint of red, the dark smear on his temple. Your laughter halts instantly. “Bug boy, you’re bleeding.”

He raises an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Bug boy? Is that what I am now?”

Before he can respond, you push him gently but firmly back onto the bed. “Stay put,” you say with a grin that doesn’t quite reach your worried eyes. 

You grab the med kit nearby and kneel beside him, careful as you open it. Your fingers work deftly, cleaning the blood from his skin, the warmth of your touch making him quiet, watching you with something soft and unfamiliar in his gaze.

He speaks again, breaking the comfortable silence. “You know, I have powers. I can heal quickly.”

You look up, surprised and genuinely impressed. “Really? That’s so cool.”

His smile falters just a little, touched with something sad. “Though the only way for me to heal this,” he gestures to the fresh wound, “is with some secret remedy I don’t have right now. So… I’m just gonna keep bleeding.”

The sadness in his voice makes your chest tighten, and panic flickers across your face. “What is it? What do you need?”

Without a word, he pulls you gently into his chest. The weight of him settles around you like a shield. “Kisses,” he whispers into your hair, voice soft and almost playful.

You grin, teasing him, “Well, I guess I’m just the remedy then.”

And with that, you tilt your head, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple, then another to his lips. It’s light and warm at first, then deepens into a tender promise—sweet—the kind of moment where everything feels just right, fragile and infinite all at once.

The room was quiet except for the soft rhythm of your breathing mingling with his steady heartbeat beside you. 

Remus’s arm rested lightly over your waist, the warmth of his skin seeping into you, grounding you in a way nothing else could. The night stretched on, gentle and slow, as if the world had paused just to give you this moment.

You shifted slightly, your eyes catching the moonlight filtering through the curtains, casting a pale glow over everything. 

The comfort of being here, so close to him, made your chest ache with a sweet kind of ache you hadn’t expected. You wanted to say the words—the ones that floated on the edges of your thoughts—but you didn’t need to. He was here. That was enough.

Then suddenly, a wave of unease washed over you, an unexpected chill creeping down your spine. 

Your breath hitched and your skin went pale, the warmth draining from your face. Remus stirred beside you, his eyes fluttering open to find yours clouded with something unspoken.

“What’s wrong?” His voice was thick with concern, gentle as a whisper meant only for you.

You swallowed hard, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I just realized you saw my room. You saw everything... all my notes, the pictures, the way I was stalking you.” Your voice cracked slightly, and you looked away, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

There was a pause before he laughed, low and full, not mocking but filled with a tenderness that made your heart flutter wildly. “I found it very adorable.”

Your eyes snapped back to his, disbelief etched deep in your expression. “Adorable? You found me stalking you adorable?”

He smiled, that crooked, slow smile that made you forget every worry you’d had just moments before. “Anything you do is adorable.”

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks again, a flush that wasn’t just embarrassment but something softer, more intimate. 

It was as if the space between you was charged with quiet electricity, a pulse you both could feel without needing words.

Remus shifted closer, his breath warm against your skin. “You could kill me for all I want,” he murmured, voice low and filled with something fierce, “and I wouldn’t mind. I’d be honored to die at the hands of Y/N Potter.”

The weight of his words settled over you like a blanket, thick and comforting and impossible to ignore. 

Your heart hammered wildly, and for a moment the world stopped turning, held captive by the intensity in his eyes.

You laughed softly, a breathless sound that slipped out unbidden. “You’re ridiculous.”

He grinned, eyes shining with an unspoken promise. “Maybe. But I’m your ridiculous.”

Just as you opened your mouth to retort, the door burst open so hard it crashed against the wall.

 Sirius stood in the doorway, hair a mess, eyes wide. "Remus—the villain isn’t dead—"

His words died in his throat as he took in the scene before him. 

Remus, still in his Spider-Man suit, mask tossed on the floor. You, tangled in the sheets beside him, cheeks flushed and hair wild. 

Sirius blinked once. Twice. Then, with the most dramatic flourish you’d ever seen, he slapped a hand over his eyes.

“What the fuck?” he finally managed, voice tinged with both horror and something akin to amusement.

Remus groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Sirius—"

Sirius peeks between his fingers. "You—wait. She knows?"

You bite your lip, trying not to laugh, but the flush on your cheeks only deepens.

Sirius drops his hand and points at the two of you accusingly. "James is going to absolutely murder you, Moony. What the hell were you thinking?"

Remus tries to sit up, wincing as his sore muscles protest. "It’s—complicated."

"Oh, I bet it is," Sirius mutters. Then he shakes his head, as if trying to clear his thoughts. 

"Wait. Why are you in bed, in the Spider-Man suit, with James’s sister? Are you out of your mind?"

You press your hand over your mouth to stifle a giggle, and Remus shoots you a look that’s half pleading, half exasperated.

Sirius raises an eyebrow. "So, what? You decided to just have sex?"

You and Remus speak at the exact same time, voices loud and full of mortification. "We didn’t have sex!"

"Oh my god, no!" you add, shaking your head rapidly. "Definitely not!"

Sirius blinks, then smirks. "Alright, alright. Just checking."

Remus rubs his hands over his face, muttering something under his breath, and you can’t help but laugh at the shade of red creeping up his neck.

Sirius just leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Well, this is officially my favorite morning of the year."

Remus groans, but there’s a glimmer of amusement in his eyes when he glances back at you. 

Remus rubbed his hands over his face, still flustered from Sirius’s endless teasing, but the grin on your face made it all worth it. 

He finally straightened, running a hand through his messy hair. “Where are James and Peter?” he asked, voice steadying as he shifted back to business.

You adjusted the sheets around you, still fighting the blush on your cheeks. “James went on a date with Lily,” you replied, trying to sound nonchalant, though the idea of your brother actually on a date was a little surreal.

Sirius rolled his eyes dramatically. “And Pettigrew is…out,” he said with a shrug, like that was explanation enough.

Remus paused, gaze sharpening. “Out?”

“Yeah, out,” Sirius replied. “Probably running errands or something. He’s been a bit more…secretive lately. I just assumed it was some…Peter thing.”

Remus’s eyes narrowed for just a moment, but then he shook it off. “Right. Well, I’m going to go get rid of that villain. I’ve let him play around long enough.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And how exactly are you going to do that?”

A sly smile curved his lips as he bent down, reaching under his bed. From beneath the frame, he pulled out something sleek and silver, wrapped carefully in cloth. He peeled it back, revealing a high-tech version of his Spider-Man suit—polished, reinforced, and far more advanced than the one he currently wore. 

Tiny lines of blue circuitry glowed faintly along its surface. “He can’t beat that,” Remus said confidently, brushing his fingers over the smooth material. 

“And the best part? The villain doesn’t know about this new tech I’ve got in here.”

Sirius let out a low whistle. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises.”

Remus grinned, that familiar spark of mischief back in his eyes. “You coming?”

Sirius scoffed. “You think I’m letting you have all the fun? I gotta be in your earpiece, making sure you don’t trip over your own feet.” 

He gave you a wink and a salute. “Try not to miss us too much.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t get yourselves killed.”

Remus moved toward the door, steps heavy with purpose, but before he left, he turned back to you. 

His eyes were molten with something unspoken, the kind of thing that lingered in rooms long after someone left. His hand found the side of your face, thumb grazing your cheekbone with a tenderness that nearly broke you. 

"Come back to me, okay?" you whispered, voice cracking just enough to reveal the fear clawing at your heart.

He gave you that lopsided grin, the one that was all Remus and none of Spider-Man. "If I don’t," he said, voice soft, "then who’s gonna save you from all that trouble you always find?"

You laughed shakily, and before you could say anything else, he leaned in and kissed you. It was quick but fierce, his hands tangled in your hair like he was afraid you might vanish the moment he let go. 

He pulled back, breathless, and then with one last look, he was gone.

Sirius clapped you on the back, though a bit more gently than usual. "I’m off. Gotta make sure our boy doesn’t do anything stupid out there," he said with a wink. You nodded numbly, still tasting Remus on your lips.

When they left, the room felt impossibly silent. Too big. Too empty. Your thoughts roared back in, louder than ever. 

You let out a shaky breath, still reeling from the kiss, from the way his hands had cradled your face like you were something fragile. 

But then something nagged at the back of your mind. A whisper of a memory you hadn’t quite pieced together.

You leaned back against the pillows, mind replaying the events from the rooftop, the chaos of the fight. You remembered the villain’s hand, reaching out to grab you. You remembered the scar on his wrist—thin, jagged, unmistakable.

You froze.

That scar. You had seen it before. A million times, in fact. 

At parties, during missions, lazy days lounging around headquarters. 

Peter had that exact same scar. You had always wondered where he’d gotten it, but he’d brushed you off every time you asked.

The room suddenly felt too small, too suffocating. 

Your heart pounded in your chest as the realization sank in, icy and sharp. 

Peter. 

Peter was the villain. 

Peter had been betraying all of you this whole time. He knew Remus’s plan. He knew the new tech. He knew everything.

And Remus was already gone.

Your hands shook as you stumbled out of bed, heart in your throat. How long had Peter known? How much had he seen? Your mind was racing with questions, each one darker than the last.

A flicker of movement caught your eye from the window, something darting between shadows too fast to be human. You rushed to it, throwing it open, and for a moment, the city sprawled out before you seemed quiet. 

But then you saw it—far in the distance, flashes of blue light sparking against the skyline, too sharp and erratic to be anything but a fight.

Your breath caught. Remus was out there with no idea he was walking into a trap. Peter knew. Peter always knew.

And now, you were out of time.

The realization crashed into you like a tidal wave, too strong and too consuming to push away. 

That scar on his wrist was the missing piece, the mark you’d seen a thousand times without a second thought. And now Remus—Remus was walking right into a trap, armed with his confidence and a suit that Peter already knew everything about.

You couldn’t breathe. The walls seemed to close in on you, suffocating and sharp-edged. 

He knew Remus’s plan, the new tech, the strategies. He had been playing all of you like puppets on strings, pulling tighter with each lie and every fake smile. 

Panic clawed its way up your throat as you stumbled out of the room, nearly tripping over the edge of the carpet.

Your hands shook as you grabbed your phone, heart hammering in your chest. 

You dialed James’s number, praying he would pick up. It rang and rang, each passing second stretching thin like wire. “Come on, come on…” you whispered, voice cracking.

Finally, there was a click. “Y/N?” James’s voice was breathless, wind rushing past him as if he were running. “What’s going on?”

“Peter,” you gasped, shoving your feet into your shoes as you spoke. “It’s Peter. He’s the villain. I saw the scar. It matches. He knows everything, James. Remus—he’s walking right into a trap.”

There was silence, heavy and stretching, before James cursed so violently you flinched. “What do you mean Remus? What the hell are you talking about?”

You paused, breath hitching. “Gosh, Spider-Man. I know everything, James.”

Another pause, sharper this time. “How do you even know all this?” he demanded, but there was no accusation, only shock and urgency.

“It doesn’t matter,” you snapped, running down the stairs two at a time. “Where are you?”

“City center,” James said, voice clipped. “I’m heading back now—”

“No!” you shouted, hailing a cab as you stumbled onto the sidewalk. “I’m coming to you. Remus is already out there. He—he’s fighting him, I saw it.”

James cursed again. “Get here fast.”

The line went dead, and you threw yourself into the back of the cab, voice breathless as you gave the driver directions. 

The city blurred past, buildings stretching into smears of light and shadow. Your fingers tapped anxiously on your knees, thoughts racing faster than the car could move.

When you finally arrived at the city center, chaos had already erupted. Crowds of people were screaming, scattering like ants as bursts of blue light ricocheted off metal and concrete. 

Above the skyline, two figures clashed—one clad in crimson and silver, the other in jagged steel, metal gleaming under the flicker of broken streetlights.

Your heart stopped. Remus. He was out there, alone, fighting against the very person who had been one of your closest friends. Betrayal and fear tangled in your gut, sharp and twisting. 

The metallic villain’s fist crashed into Spider-Man with a force that shook the ground, sending him sprawling across the pavement. 

People screamed, scattering like leaves in a storm. The air was thick with panic, the chaos of it nearly blinding as you pushed your way through the frantic crowd, heart pounding like a drum.

Your eyes locked on the scene unfolding before you. Remus—Spider-Man—was struggling to get up, shaking his head as if to clear it. His new suit shimmered under the flickering streetlights, cracked slightly at the shoulder where the impact had hit hardest. 

The villain loomed above him, mechanical limbs whirring with each predatory step forward.

You sucked in a breath. The last time they had defeated him, it had been with that device—an energy amplifier. 

Your mind spun with the memory, grasping at every detail. If you could replicate it, if you could make something similar…

There wasn’t time to second-guess it. You turned sharply, pushing your way through the throng of terrified bystanders until you found what you were looking for: a tech vendor's stall, abandoned in the chaos. Pieces of scrap metal, circuit boards, wires—it was a mess of technology, but it was something.

Your hands moved on instinct, gathering what you needed: a copper coil, lithium batteries, a panel of solar conductors, anything that could channel raw energy. 

The amplifier worked by redirecting kinetic force into a concentrated pulse—if you could just build something close to it…

Your fingers flew, twisting wires and connecting circuit boards. 

The copper coil would act as the conduit, the lithium as the charge, and the solar conductors to boost its power intake. You pulled open a panel, exposing the wiry guts of it, and started connecting everything together. Sparks flew, the hum of energy rising beneath your palms. Sweat dripped down your forehead as you worked, heart hammering as you glanced back at the fight.

Spider-Man had gained some ground, landing a kick to the villain’s chest that sent him stumbling back, but it wasn’t enough. Not yet. 

You jammed the final piece into place, tightening the last wire and securing it with a twist. The device pulsed once, then lit up, a soft blue glow emanating from its center.

 The air was thick with tension, shattered glass crunching beneath frantic footsteps, and the sharp crackle of energy bouncing off cold metal. 

Shitty news reporters had swarmed in, their cameras casting the entire fight live for the world to see, their voices a distant drone beneath the roar of the crowd scattering in panic.

Remus lay on the ground, winded and battered from a brutal blow the villain had just landed. His crimson and silver suit was scuffed and torn, but he pushed himself up, grimacing through the pain.

You knew you had to act fast. The device—the energy amplifier—was the only thing that had worked before. But this time, the stakes were even higher. 

The amplifier was powerful enough to disrupt the villain’s defenses, but it had one cruel catch: whoever wielded it had to maintain direct contact with the target. The energy surge would course through you as well, and you wouldn’t come out unharmed.

With no time to waste, you darted behind a broken stall and gathered whatever materials you could find: frayed wires, twisted metal strips, bits of a shattered electronic billboard. 

Your hands moved quickly, weaving and twisting, soldering circuits in a makeshift bow—an amplifier bow wired to release a focused burst of energy. It was crude but brilliant, a weapon born of desperation and ingenuity.

You stepped into the clearing, heart hammering in your chest, and called out loudly, voice steady despite the chaos. “Or should I call you Pettigrew, you fucking traitor?”

The villain—metallic and menacing—slowly turned to face you. His snake symbol glinted on his chestplate, a dark promise of betrayal.

From the distance, a shout pierced the noise. “No!”

James had arrived, breathless and frantic, but too far to intervene just yet.

Remus, lying on the ground, looked up at you, eyes filled with pain and warning. He shook his head weakly. “Please… don’t.”

But you had no choice.

Raising the amplifier bow, you steadied your aim. The wires hummed with electric energy, circuits pulsing like a heartbeat in your hands. 

You released the shot—a brilliant surge of raw power blasting toward the snake emblem on the villain’s chest.

The moment the energy connected, it was like a thunderclap. The force surged through the air, wrapping around you in a shocking embrace. 

Pain flared up your arms, your vision blurred, and the world spun wildly before everything went black.

-

-

-

You woke slowly, the world coming back into focus in fragments. The ceiling above you was painfully white, sterile, the kind of brightness that belonged to hospital lights. 

Your body felt heavy, limbs weighted down and wrapped in tight bandages. There were wires connected to you, snaking out from beneath the covers, their ends disappearing into beeping machines by your bedside. 

A wave of panic surged up your throat, and your fingers twitched, searching for movement.

“Hey, hey,” a familiar voice murmured, gentle and reassuring. You blinked hard, vision clearing enough to make out Remus sitting beside you, bruised and bandaged himself, but very much alive. 

His hand found yours, squeezing it softly. “You’re alright. You’re safe.”

Regulus was there too, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his gaze sharp and watchful. He offered a small nod when your eyes met his. “You scared the hell out of us.”

The door swung open, and James all but burst inside, eyes wide and frantic. “Thank god you’re awake,” he breathed out, stumbling over his own feet as he rushed to your bedside. 

He looked you over with a mixture of relief and exasperation, ruffling his hair as if trying to shake off the adrenaline. “You’re insane, you know that? Completely reckless.”

A weak laugh bubbled up from your throat, more relief than amusement. “Nice to see you too, Potter.”

James snorted, dropping into the chair opposite Remus. “You’re lucky you’ve got these two looking out for you. That was…insane. I mean, brilliant, but insane.”

Remus’s thumb brushed over your knuckles absentmindedly. His eyes were softer than you’d ever seen them, filled with something unspoken and fragile. “You didn’t have to do that, you know,” he murmured, voice low. 

“You could have died.”

“Yeah, well,” you managed, voice cracking just slightly. “I couldn’t just stand by.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow, finally pushing off the wall and coming closer. “You might want to consider standing by next time. You nearly got yourself killed.” But there was no bite to his words, only a thin veil of concern he didn’t bother to hide.

You tried to sit up, but a sharp pain flared in your side, forcing you back down with a wince. Remus’s hand pressed gently to your shoulder. “Easy,” he said, his voice a soothing balm. “You’re still healing. Just…take it slow.”

For a moment, there was only the soft hum of machines and the steady rise and fall of your breaths. 

Then James leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head. “So,” he drawled, a grin creeping onto his face. “When you’re back on your feet…we’re going to have a long talk about your definition of ‘safety.’”

Regulus scoffed. “Safety? She ran into the middle of a full-on fight with a homemade amplifier. I’d say her definition of safety is a bit skewed.”

You couldn’t help it; you laughed, the sound cracking the tension that had built in your chest. 

Despite everything, despite the pain and the panic and the aftermath, you were here. 

James stretched his arms above his head, glancing at Regulus with a grin. “Okay, well, me and Reg are gonna go catch up with Sirius, who’s currently losing a battle with a vending machine.” He rolled his eyes affectionately. 

Then, as if remembering something, he turned back to you and Remus, eyes narrowing playfully. “And don’t get too cozy with my sister, Lupin.”

You laughed, shaking your head, and James ruffled your hair on his way out, Regulus following with a parting nod. 

The door shut softly behind them, leaving the room draped in quiet warmth.

Your eyes immediately met Remus. “I know you don’t like what I did, but—”

Before you could finish, his hands cupped your face, pulling you in with a kind of desperation you hadn’t expected. 

His mouth met yours, soft and searching, like you were something delicate he was terrified of breaking. 

You melted into him, hands slipping around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. His breath stuttered against your lips, and when you finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours, eyes still closed. 

“You’re everything I tried not to want. And now…I can’t imagine wanting anything else.”

Your heart lurched in your chest, words trapped in your throat.

A crooked grin played at his lips as he pulled back, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “Come on. I’m going to show you something.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I thought I was supposed to rest.”

He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth tilting upward. “Good thing I’m Spider-Man, right?”

Remus moved toward the backpack stashed behind the door, unzipping it and pulling out his Spider-Man suit piece by piece. 

He slid it on with the kind of practiced ease that came with repetition, the mask hanging loosely from his fingertips as he turned back to you. There was a flicker of hesitation before he stepped closer, his gaze softening. "Ready?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Ready for what?"

He grinned, a flash of mischief lighting up his features. "To get out of here." Without another word, he slipped the mask over his face, the familiar lenses locking into place, and in one smooth motion, he scooped you into his arms.

A startled laugh escaped your lips, your hands instinctively wrapping around his neck. "Remus! What are you—"

But he was already moving, pushing the window open with a flick of his hand. The city sprawled out below, lights blinking like distant stars. 

Before you could protest, he stepped onto the ledge, his grip on you firm and steady. "Hold on," he murmured through the mask, and then you were airborne.

Wind whipped past your face, the rush of it stealing the breath from your lungs. The hospital fell away beneath you, replaced by the glittering sprawl of the city as Remus swung from one skyscraper to the next with effortless grace.

 Your heart pounded wildly, caught somewhere between exhilaration and disbelief. You tightened your hold around him, the city blurring past in streaks of light and shadow.

It was nothing like you’d ever experienced—weightless and wild, the world stretching out beneath you like a living, breathing thing. 

You laughed, the sound lost in the wind, and Remus’s grip on you tightened just a fraction, almost like he was savoring the way you clung to him.

When he finally landed again, it was on the pavement just before the city’s grand bridge. Its arching structure loomed above, glittering with strings of lights like stars hung low enough to touch. 

But what stole your breath wasn’t the view—it was the webbing stretched across its iron frame, glistening silver in the moonlight, spelling out three simple words: 

I Love You.

Your hands flew to your mouth, eyes wide and heart thundering. You turned to him, and he was already looking at you, mask off, eyes raw and unguarded. 

"I wanted you to see it from here," he murmured, voice trembling just enough for you to hear it. "Before I said it."

The world felt impossibly still. "You… you did this?"

He nodded, taking a step closer. "I’ve loved you for a long time," he confessed, voice thick with emotion. 

"Way before I walked into your room and saw that mess of clues and pins and theories. Hell, I think I loved you the second James introduced you as his 'forbidden-to-date' sister."

You laughed, the sound cracking with disbelief and joy. "You’re serious?"

"I’m completely serious." He took your hands in his, the warmth of him grounding you, anchoring you. 

"I’ve tried not to. I swear I’ve tried. But you’re everything I can’t shake. You’re everything I want. You could kill me for all I care, I’d be honored to die at the hands of Y/N Potter."

Your breath hitched, the weight of his words sinking in like the softest kind of devastation. 

He was so close now, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, his breath ghosting over your skin. "Remus," you whispered, voice cracking. "I... I love you too."

His eyes flashed with something wild and desperate, and before you could say another word, his lips were on yours. 

It was slow and aching at first, like he was savoring every second, but then it grew deeper, more consuming, his hands coming up to cup your face as if he was afraid you might slip away. 

You kissed him back with everything you had, fingers tangling in his hair, breath mingling with his until the world around you blurred away into nothing.

When you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against yours, eyes still closed, lips parted. "You made this for me," you whispered, voice trembling with awe as you looked back at the bridge, the words shimmering like spun silver.

He opened his eyes, gaze softening as he looked at you. "I’d make you anything if it meant I got to see you look at me like that."

“Wait, I’m not done,” Remus whispered suddenly, reaching behind the doorframe where his backpack lay hidden. 

He fished through its contents with a sort of hurried excitement before pulling out a small, glimmering necklace. It hung from a delicate chain, a tiny spider charm nestled at its center, its eyes gleaming with a crimson shimmer.

He stepped forward, lifting it so it dangled between you, catching the streetlights. "This," he murmured, voice soft and sincere, "is linked to my suit. If you press it, I’ll find you. Wherever you are."

Your fingers reached out to brush against it, eyes wide with wonder. "You… you made this for me?"

"I did," he nodded, fastening it around your neck with a gentleness that made your heart lurch. "And there’s more." 

He reached back into the bag and pulled out a matching bracelet, sleek and shimmering, threaded with the same crimson accents. "You can’t seem to stay out of trouble," he teased, his eyes sparkling. "Consider this my way of keeping an eye on you."

You laughed, light and breathless, fingers touching the necklace that now rested against your collarbone. "Gosh," you whispered, looking up at him with a grin so wide it hurt. "I love you."

He leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss so soft and slow that it stole the breath right out of you. 

i highly suggest playing Honest by The Neighborhood here for the perfect outro <3

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that—minutes or hours, time blurring into something infinite. But at some point, the silence grew heavy, and you turned to look at him, his profile bathed in moonlight. 

His mask lay beside him, the eyes still fixed in that eternal wideness, but his real gaze was softer, warmer.

“Remus?” you murmured, voice barely a whisper.

He turned to you, brow lifting in question. “Yeah?”

You took a breath, steadying yourself. “When I found out you were Spider-Man...it just...it made so much sense.”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Sense? I’m pretty sure it’s the most nonsensical thing that’s ever happened to me.”

But you shook your head, voice steady now, charged with quiet certainty. “No, really. It made perfect sense. Spider-Man isn’t just a hero to me—he’s everything you are. Brave beyond reason, endlessly kind, carrying the world on his shoulders but never losing that spark of selflessness. Always giving more than anyone could ask for, even when he thinks it’s not enough. That’s you. Has always been you.”

Your voice grew softer, almost confessional, as your fingers entwined with his. “When I found that earpiece in James’s room, I didn’t hesitate for a second. I didn’t run to Sirius’s or Peter’s room. I ran straight to your room. Because you’re the one I believed in. The one who’s been there even when the world wasn’t. I could have assumed it was James—maybe that would’ve made sense, especially after seeing the webs in his room—but I didn’t. Because no one wears Spider-Man like you do. No one.”

He gave you a small, almost embarrassed smile. “I don’t know if I deserve it.”

You squeezed his hand, your voice a soothing balm against his fears. “You do. More than anyone else. The suit is just cloth and webbing. But you... you breathe life into it. You give it heart and soul. The mask isn’t a shield—it’s a window and I always knew it was you beneath it. The way you move, the way you fight, how fiercely you love even the people you’ve never met.”

He swallowed hard, eyes locking with yours, raw and unguarded. “The way I love?”

You leaned closer, your breath mingling with his. “You don’t do anything halfway—not even love. It’s reckless, it’s fierce, it’s everything. I knew it was you because Spider-Man loves the way you do—with every inch of his heart.”

“I’ve spent so long hiding, pretending no one could see me,” he murmured. “But you… you see all of me. The hero and the man. The fear and the strength. The light and the shadows.”

You smiled, warmth blooming in your chest as you leaned into his touch. “I’ve always seen you. And I always will, spider-boy.”

His breath came out shaky, and he leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours. “Honest?”

You cupped his face, brushing your thumb against his cheekbone. “Honest.”

He watched you with those gentle brown eyes, a question unspoken on his lips. 

But before he could say anything, you moved, the cool night air brushing your skin as you stood up, brushing off the dust from your jeans. Remus blinked up at you from where he sat, brow furrowing in confusion.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice laced with surprise.

You did not answer—not right away. Instead, you moved, steps soft and measured as you wandered toward the edge of the rooftop. 

Your heels scuffed against the concrete, a whisper of sound against the city's distant hum. Below, the world stretched vast and shimmering, lights flickering like scattered stars, restless and alive. 

You turned back to him, the wind catching in your hair, loose strands dancing around your face. For a moment, you were still, arms at your sides, eyes holding his like a promise.

“Hey, Bug Boy?” Your voice was soft but sure, lacing through the space between you like a silver thread.

And before he could shape the words on his lips, you leaned back, tipping off the edge with your arms spread wide, surrendering to the night. 

There was no scream, no flinch of fear—just weightlessness, the air rushing past you in ribbons of wind and light. The city blurred beneath you, gold and white streaks smearing across your vision. Your eyes slipped shut, heart hammering wild and free.

Because you knew he would jump immediately after you.

There was no question, not even the whisper of doubt. Because Remus Lupin had always caught you, always been the net beneath your fall. In all the ways that mattered. In every small, unspoken gesture. In every steady gaze and every soft-spoken promise. This was no different.

The wind howled louder, rushing past your ears like the roar of the ocean, and you just let it take you. Down and down, the city lights smearing into wild streaks of gold, your heartbeat thrumming in your ears like the rush of wings. 

And still, you did not open your eyes.

You thought of his hands, steady and warm, always reaching, always finding you. 

You thought of rooftop nights and whispered promises, of moonlight slipping through cracked windows and the way he always called you reckless with that crooked smile.

Maybe this was what flying felt like.

The wind howled one last time, and you smiled into the rush of it, arms still wide, eyes still closed.

And then, just as the city lights began to fade into shadow, you felt it: a tug, gentle as breath, soft as the brush of a fingertip.

He caught you.

He laughed, loud and unrestrained, the sound vibrating through you. He held you tighter, like he was terrified to let go, and you realized then that maybe you didn’t need wings to fly. Maybe you just needed him.

Because some part of you always knew: you would fall, and he would catch you.

Every. Single. Time.

a/n: sooo? i honetsly loved writing this and id love to make more blurbs of this au with spiderman remus <33

[obeymeluv]

His Favorite Part of You {2} [Random TWST x Reader]

There's a lot to like about someone but it's hard to put into words :/

Jade skims the famous lander magazines from time to time and has seen his fair share of interesting things; one that sent him in a spiral was a poll called 'Things Partners Like About Each Other!'

There were many things he liked about you, though he'd be loathe to tell anyone. A lot of them were answers in that poll: smile, eyes, voice, but that didn't suffice. The more he thought about it, the more he thought of your skin. Your skin was smooth and soft. It could be powdered and lotioned to smell however you wished! That was quite fascinating; the land potion suppressed his webbing and scales, made his coloring more normal, toned down his natural mucosal protections to an enviable dewy look, but he was chemically compatible with very few products.

Sad, really.

But you looked and smelled lovely all the time. Even when you had a blemish or a scar, your skin caught his eye. He imagined it to be a unique scale, like you were maturing into your stripes, and he loved you all the more.

---

Kalim loves your eyes. To him, they are more beautiful than any jewel he owned. He thinks you look especially lovely when he lines them in kohl or when Vil steals you to give you a break from the chaos with a makeover. Although he tries his hardest to pay attention in class, his mind often wanders around the room and he delights in trying to find something close to your eye color. His favorite thing about them, he thinks, is the way they crinkle when you see him.

---

Azul admires your kindness and keeps a careful eye on it. He told you once that you'd be eaten alive for it. Kindness is rare in Twisted Wonderland. Rare enough to capitalize, he'd daresay, though he wouldn't DREAM of making it available to anyone else. Somehow, as if you know his soul, you make everything better when he needs it most.

It comes in many forms--adjusting part of his suit when he gets too excited, forcing him to eat the sweet he really doesn't want to deny himself, walking with him to make up for sitting so long--but his favorite kind is when he goes for that hug at the end of the day and just melts into you.

Everything just melts away in a gentle tide that soothes him.

---

Sebek's instinct is to deny he likes anything about you but EVERYONE knows he has a crush on you. He holds strong with Silver, an unflinching wall of secrets, but Malleus asks and he crumbles. Your attitude is what he settles on. Malleus finds it amusing, Lilia a bit vague, but Sebek thinks it rightly encompasses you. Sebek admires how you face a losing battle every day, being a non-magical human in a place such as this, marvels at how you blend so seamlessly among everyone he cannot, and admires how you scrape by on tests even though it makes him want to pop a blood vessel.

Yes, you may not see it, but you're something to admire. You've never given up or backed down and he likes that a lot. Stupid human.

---

Idia likes your voice and he thinks it's because he doesn't always use his in a normal setting. It's fine to hide behind a tablet but every time he has an IRL interaction he either clams up or talks at turbo speed and no one understands him, anyways. Then the heart-clutching deafening silence sets in, confusion shortly after, and his panic meter is at MAX!

You make all of that better. You hear him and clarify when he descends into stutters. When Ortho isn't around to translate his netspeak, you deliver and he just stands back with a smile. Some of his favorites include 'hi', 'good night', and 'I love you.'

He wants to make a character mod and tried to get you to record voice lines but you said no. It seemed unfair at first but when you granted him a 'super premo, limited run, VIP all-access pass' to the real thing, he can't complain.

A one-of-one SSR? HELL YEAH!

[riddlesrizzler]

We're All Mad Here

summary: You were never meant to leave. characters: mad hatter! mattheo. cheshire cat! enzo. caterpillar! theo. white rabbit! draco. alice! reader warnings: DARK! blood, weird, creepy vibes. mentions of death and gore. word count: 1.4k

𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭

The garden twisted around you like a living thing. The air was thick, suffocating, laced with the scent of the damp earth and something ugly, something rotting. The statues lining the hedges weren't right- cracks webbed their marbled faces, their mouths frozen mid scream, their hollow eyes dripping black.

And then there was a boy.

Draco Malfoy

His coat, though still pristine white, was torn at the edges, as if something had been gnawing at the fabric. His skin was too pale, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he ran- no, staggered- past you, clutching a golden pocket watch so hard his fingers had gone bloodless.

"Too late-too late- bloody hell- I'm too late-"

His voice was hoarse, raw with panic. But it was the sound behind him that made the blood in your veins run cold.

A skittering. Fast. Wet. Wrong.

Draco turned his head- just for a moment. That was all it took.

The shadows lurched from the hedges, something long and many- limbed slithered in from the dark.

And then he was gone.

No scream.

Just the sound of bone snapping.

Silence fell.

The garden seemed to breath.

You go to turn to run, this couldn't be right, but the ground was no longer beneath you.

The world collapsed into a vast, gaping, dark hole.

and you fell.

-

𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬

When you hit the ground, it moved.

The earth was slick, pulsing, as if you had landed atop of something alive. The air was stagnant, filled with the metallic scent of blood.

The trees stretched impossibly high, their bark dark and gooey, as if they had been crying thick, black tar. No leaves. No wind. Only stillness.

And then-

Laughter.

Low and amused.

"Lost are we, Alice?"

Your breath hitched.

Enzo Berkshire lounged in the branches above, half hidden in the twisting dark. His eyes gleamed, wide and reflective like an animal's, catching the dim, unnatural light. His grin was too sharp. Too wide.

Like his mouth had been cut open just to stretch that far.

"Where-" You voice caught. Your throat burned. You swallowed, trying this again. "Where am I?"

Enzo tilted his head, the movement slow and deliberate, like a predator sizing up prey.

"Now that's a question," he murmured. His voice slithered through the silence, curling around your ribs, tightening. "But I have a better one."

His grin widened and stretched.

"How long do you think you'll last?"

You felt something shift around you.

A wet, scraping sound.

Shallow breaths.

You turned-

And froze.

The trees weren't trees at all.

They were bodies.

Twisted, gnarled figures with their mouths sewn shut, their limbs stretched and fused into a grotesque, bark covered forms. Their fingers twitched. Eyes rolled in the sunken sockets, black tears leaking from the corners.

One of them moved.

Its jaw, half-unstitched, creaked open. A single, whispered word slipped free-

"Run."

You did.

Your feet slamming on the shaking ground as Enzo’s laugh cackled around the edges of the forest.

-

𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘳

The deeper you went. The worse it became.

The sky overhead was off- not a sky at all, but writhing mass of shifting shapes, twisting in ways that made your stomach clench. Something was moving up there. Watching.

Then- a towering shape loomed before you .

A mushroom.

But it was rotting. Black and moldy. Dripping ooze from its thick, bloated stalk, and the smell- God, the smell- was unbearable, heavy with the stench of death.

Atop the mushroom sat him.

Theo Nott.

His long coat was tattered, frayed, and stained with something too dark, something red. His fingers moved idly over the steam of a pipe, inhaling deep, slow breaths. The smoke curled unnaturally, forming shifting shapes that resembled faces.

They were twisted, screaming with no sound, before they disappeared into the air.

He exhaled, and the voices wisped around you.

"You've already lost," Theo muttered, his voice low, knowing.

Your stomach twisted. "Lost what?"

Theo smiled- it was small, at the edge of his lips, yet the tiny gesture was unsettling.

"Yourself."

The voices grew louder as the smoke moved towards you, circling around your fingers, slipping beneath your skin. You could feel them. The ghosts of Wonderland. The ones who had come before. The ones who had gone mad.

You stumble back, choking on the scent of burnt flesh.

Theo's gaze followed you lazily, half-lidded, bored. "I would run if I were you."

The trees contorted violently, their skeletal branches snapping and twisting as if something was crawling beneath their bark, trying to get out. The ground groaned in response.

You took it as a sign to keep running.

-

𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳’𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘺

The tea party was a graveyard.

A massive table stretched before you, impossibly long, its wood blackened and splintered, gouges cut deep in its surface. The chairs were overturned, some shattered into jagged remains. The dishes were broke, porcelain shards glinting like teeth in the dim light.

And the bodies-

They sat in their seats, their faces frozen in time, twisted in horror. Their hands were clawed at their throats, their skin sunken and grey. Rot clung to their bones, the scent was cloying, making you nauseous.

And at the head of it all-

Mattheo Riddle

The king of the mad.

He lounged in his throne-like chair, legs stretched out, fingers idly tapping against the armrest. His top hat sat at an angle, casting his face in a shadow. His smirk was lazy, but his eyes-

His eyes.

They were dark, endless pits, something alive shifting within them, swirling like the sky above.

"Finally," he mused, his voice smooth and deep. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't come."

Yow swallowed hard. "What is this place?"

Mattheo chuckled. "You already know, don't you?"

The shadows around the tables moved.

The corpses had turned to look at you.

Hands- rotting, bones- began to twitch, fingers curled.

It had felt like their stares had sucked the air from your lungs, your soul.

Mattheo stood, slowly, like he had all the time in the world. "You still think you can leave, don't you?" he tsked, taking a measured step towards you. The candlelight flickered in his gaze, casting a sharp gleam across his smirk. "Poor, sweet Alice. Always clinging to hope."

You stumbled back, but the moment you moved, the shadows shifted to close you in. The walls seemed further away, stretching into an endless abyss.

Mattheo shook his head.

"You don't understand yet, do you?" His voice was soft, almost gentle as he reached for you, fingers cold as they traced down your arm. "You've been drinking the tea, breathing the smoke, listening to the wind." His smirk widened, and you could see the madness curling beneath his skin. "Wonderland has already seeped into your veins."

His grip tightened.

"And there's no going back."

You pulse hammered. "I-I'm not like you."

Mattheo laughed- low and weighted, the sound settling around you much likes vines that started to take over a building. "Oh, but you are." He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. "You were never sane to begin with."

The room twisted. The walls melted, dripping like wax. The floor buckled, and suddenly you were falling, falling-

Mattheo's voice followed you into the abyss.

"You're just as mad as the rest of us, Alice."

[corazondebeskar-reads]

of rage and ruin - chapter nine

chapter nine

series masterlist | prev chapter | next chapter

werewolf!alpha!Joel Miller x f!omega!reader

word count: 3.6k

summary: things take a turn for the worse.

Please read the warnings as some new important ones have been added. NOTE: this is the last time that the SA tag will be used in this story. However, the events of this chapter are important. If you decide to skip this chapter, feel free to message me and I’ll fill you in. Or message if you want specifics about the tags to decide if you want to read it.

chapter warnings: non-con, dark, dead dove do not eat, a/b/o, alpha/omega dynamics, omegaverse, captivity, canon-typical violence, genre-typical violence, horror themes, graphic violence, abuse by captors (not by either joel or reader), body horror, viewer discretion is advised, sexual assault (NOT by joel, NOT described, just implied and alluded to), p in v, torture

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

You were wrong about Mike. About his lack of retaliation.

You were so, so wrong. 

That much is clear when you wake up.

The first sign that things aren’t quite right is that you never did get around to going to sleep last night. 

The second is that you may be buried, or something. You can’t quite move your limbs beyond wiggling your fingers and toes. And you can’t see shit. 

The third sign is that you can’t smell Joel. Not beyond what’s soaked into your skin and sweater. No, he’s very much not here. Or anywhere nearby, if the rapidly tightening feeling in your chest is any indication. 

It’s panic you can’t shake off, you know, since you can’t fucking move. 

The fluorescent overhead buzzes to life. 

“Not so brave now, are you?” The voice blows in from across the room and sinks in your gut like it’s sleeping with the fishes. 

You really, truly are in some deep shit. 

You’ve been kidnapped from your kidnappers. Honestly, what did you do in a past life to deserve this? 

He’s right about one thing. The confidence you clung to in the early days has been picked at like carrion. You’re scared. 

“I didn’t–I’m–” but something is wrong, so very, very wrong. You’re bubbling out gibberish and spit. It’s just sounds, dribbling from sloppy lips. 

He rolls his eyes. “Shut up. It ain’t gonna wear off for a while, so best just sit quietly like a good bitch.”

You’re not sure if it's the panic or whatever he’s drugged you with, but your throat is cinched, and your cheeks sting from the uncontrollable stream of tears. 

“Let’s see what’s so fuckin’ special about you. Why your cunt is worth more than my brother’s life,” he spits, unfortunately literally, as droplets spray. 

Shit. They were actual brothers. Not that it mattered; what was done was done, but you had really miscalculated this. 

His hand is on your shoulder. It’s better than where you thought he was reaching, and yet, still horrible. It’s not like you haven’t had to deal with handsy or aggressive men. It’s just… usually, you can move. Fight. Run. 

His hand is nothing like Joel’s. His fingers are short, his nails broken and edged with grime. There are scars and dry skin, like Joel, but it’s nothing like his rough grip. There’s no nick above the webbing of his thumb, no calluses on the plump pads of his fingers to remind you that you’re alive. 

Mike brushes his thumb over Joel’s bite, the thin newborn skin taut and jagged. You make a sound. You don’t hear it, not with the way your heart is beating in your eardrums, not the way every note scrapes your throat, but you grate out a sound that might have been a hiss. 

Or a growl.

His hand connects with your cheek, which does not help the dizziness stuffed between your ears.

 

You’re not even mad, because it makes you dizzy enough that you don’t really register what comes after. Maybe you would have been worried about that, but he hit you hard enough that you didn’t even remember how hard you’d been hit. 

He must know he’s on a dwindling timetable. Inevitably, by dawn, the others will return to the base with Joel in tow. Inevitably, by dawn, they’ll know. 

As if he can tell you’ve dug up a fragment of hope, he leers, taking a swig from a bottle of dirty brown liquor. “You think Jim’s gonna waste resources on finding you?” he murmurs, grimy fingers stroking your cheek. 

And just like that, with a sharp breath, you lose that hope. Because he’s right, he’s undeniably right. Jim never misses a chance to bitch about the drain you are. They don’t need you, not really. Neither does Joel, not really. 

It’s easy, after the hours that have passed, to give in to the overwhelming dread. His hand wanders as it settles in, and you twitch away from his touch.

“Guess it’s wearin’ off,” Mike muses, taking another drink. “Can’t have you puttin’ up a fight now.” His bottle clinks against the file cabinet he sets it upon as he squats to dig through a duffel bag. 

There’s nothing you can do when he ties you down. There’s nothing you can do as he grips your cheeks hard, his thumb digging into your jaw until your mouth opens. You try not to swallow the liquor he pours in, only to aspirate it instead, wheezing and sputtering to little effect. 

“Jesus. Can’t even handle a little booze,” he sneers. “Too bad. Can’t have you gettin’ too feisty, huh?” He forces more down your throat, and it burns. 

He keeps squeezing your face, peering down at your mouth. “Reckon I should teach you a lesson about biting,” he said, tapping the bottle lightly against your front teeth. A whimper of fear slips free, and he grins crookedly. 

“Yeah, you don’t like that, huh? My brother didn’t much like gettin’ bit, either.” 

He steps away to rifle back through the duffle, and when he comes back, it’s with a pair of rusted pliers. 

You can feel your body twitch, trying its very hardest. The lingering drugs and booze make your head spin and throb. Mike faded in and out of view, but made his presence very clear as he pried your jaw back open. 

He tapped each tooth with the pliers, hemming and hawing about where to start. Garbled sounds are all the protest you can muster, trying to shake your head loose of his grasp as he selects an incisor. 

The first two attempts fail, the pliers slipping free, battering you in the process. The third try, though, clamps on just right. He clumsily tugs, to no avail, before wiggling and twisting the tooth. Reluctantly, your body parts ways with it as he increases the force, plucking the loosened tooth from the gum. 

You can’t even really hear your own screams. There’s pain, there’s blood, there’s Mike’s sick laughter. And then there’s darkness.

—

It’s not the fight that wakes you. Not the gunshots, not the snarling. Everything has died down by the time you come around.

Well, not everything. Based on the sounds, you’d hazard a guess that Mike is still at least a little alive. When you look up, you’re thrilled to find out you can, that the paralysis has waned. 

Then, of course, you wish you hadn’t looked at all. Once you have, though, you can’t look away. You understand that Tool song now, the one from the CD your dad burned you before the world went to hell. 

For a moment, Joel meets your eyes, and you are the wolf, nearly. You can feel the way it burns through your veins. 

Satisfied that you aren’t afraid, that you’re okay for a moment, he finishes his feast. 

There’s not much left of Mike when he tosses his corpse into a corner. It smacks against the far wall and drops to the ground. His final resting place. 

The Wolf that is Joel, that is your alpha, that is your savior, stands on his hind legs with those unsettling inverse ankle-knee-freaky bits bent. But even crouching, he fills the room. He’s a blur, like the first time you saw him, an ink blot in the center of your vision. A wormhole absorbing all the light. What little is left reflects off his shiny body. It takes you a moment to realize his fur (or his body hair, as he insists) is soaked in blood. 

It clings to the plaque on his teeth. His hands are steeped in it, some already hardening or coagulating under the stretch of his claws. He stalks over to you, and you do not flinch from him. His claws rend the rope as if it were no more than spaghetti. You tremble uncontrollably as he helps you sit up, most of your faculties back under your control. His blood-soaked, massive paws cradle your cheeks, pulling back abruptly when you whimper. 

A growl rumbles from his chest, and he throws his head back and howls. It brings footsteps in your direction as he gathers you into his arms. You’ve never felt smaller than you do now, and it’s not just the bulk and heft of his body. He cradles you with a delicacy unbefitting his sharp, deadly nature, but it’s all the more Joel to you than the brutality you witnessed. 

The raiders filter in, just a few of them, more to control him than assist, but they reclaim Mike’s stolen supplies and pay you no mind. At least until Cheryl comes in. 

“Alive after all, huh?” she says, approaching far closer than you think she should dare. But she wiggles the remote to the shock collar as she nears, peering at you. “Still want her, pet?” she asks Joel. “She’s all used up.”

He bares his teeth and snarls, and she shrugs. “It was just an option,” she says, hand dropping from the pistol on her belt. 

You feel sick from the second brush with death in as many hours. Or maybe it’s from the bootleg booze and blood that’s been dripping down your throat. 

He looks down at you, long tongue poking out to lap at your cheek before he realizes the injury is inside. He whines, and you shake your head, weaving your fingers in his fur and burying your face there. He doesn’t need words; neither of you do. He just takes you home. 

No. Not home. You can’t let yourself accept that. But it’s been almost a year, now. Almost a year since they plucked you from that FEDRA truck and brought you to hell. 

It’s not the cell that’s home, though. It’s him. 

—

You look up at the wolf once you’re locked in, the relief of your familiar prison bubbling up like bile. The others go back to their day, the incident no more than a blip of inconvenience. Silence lingers, both of you waiting, waiting, waiting to hear the heavy thunk of the cellar’s deadbolt. 

As soon as it sounds, you break.

“You found me,” you gasp, trailing into a whimper. “You found me, you found me.” Your voice is grating, leaking from your cracked and dry throat. It hurts to talk, your jaw throbs, and you struggle around the swelling, but you can’t stem the leak.

He grips your biceps with both paws, and rolls back the shift enough to speak. “I found you,” he says firmly, letting you feel his sturdy hold on you, keeping you there and present. “I’ve got you. Okay?”

You don’t respond, still shaking and swaying a little on the spot. “You found me,” you echo, raw and dredged up from the hollow of your lungs. 

“Hey,” he growls without aggression. “ Listen to me. ” He doesn’t mean to do it. His voice drops a register, an even lower rumble than usual, and your attention snaps up to him. 

He winces. There’ll be time to apologize later, though. “I’ve got you,” he repeats steadily. “Okay?”

You nod. “Okay,” you echo in a whisper. 

“I will always find you,” he promises, eyes gone dark. “Always, little omega. You’re mine, and there’s nowhere on this godforsaken earth that they can hide you from me.” 

In any other context, it would frighten you. It should, by all means, frighten you a little. Instead, you kiss him.

It’s a mistake that sends you pulling back, gasping in pain, and all the ferocity on his face falls.

“Let me see,” he coaxes gently, cradling your jaw. He’s careful as he presses your lip to the side to get a good look. “ Jesus, ” he whispers.

You can see the guilt building up, layers upon layers from all his life. You won’t let this, won’t let you be another. “Joel—”

But he’s not having it. He bristles and narrows his eyes at you. “Would you stop tryin’ to run your mouth? You’re making it bleed.” His eyes dart over your face, stopping back on your missing tooth each time before sighing, shoulders slumping. 

“C’mon,” he grumbles, leaving no room for argument by simply picking you up and carrying you over to the bed. He settles with you straddling his lap, wincing. He looks down for only a moment. “I’ll take care of that next. Sit still ‘n be good.” 

It turns out not to be a hard order to follow. He sets about to lick your wounds, starting with your mouth. He doesn’t mean for it to turn into anything, he really doesn’t, but he’s licking inside your mouth. As his spit mixes with yours, as he laves his tongue oh-so-gently over and over, the familiar tingling starts to set in. It numbs the pain, not entirely, but the relief is enough to make you sigh softly against his mouth.

He can’t entirely be blamed as it turns into lazy kisses, tongues brushing comfort over one another, each press of lips like a mantra. I’m here, I’m here, I’m here. You’re not sure who’s reassuring who. 

It’s not going to fix it. There’s not a magical makeout session that can restore your tooth or even heal the socket. Not that quickly, anyway. But it eases the pain, and so does the way his warm hands hold you like you’re something precious. The way he groans into the kiss, the way he can’t stop reaching for every bit of you, checking meticulously to make sure nothing else was taken from you. 

He makes good on his promise to soothe your other wounds. He can’t quite numb your aching mind or racing heart, can’t slide his tongue over the places that shattered inside, but he can damn well remove every trace of Mike from your body.

He settles you down on the mattress, settles himself into the wolf, and he licks every inch of you. His long, hot tongue is just rough enough to make you feel clean. There’s no way even a cell of Mike’s skin is left behind on yours. Joel eats it all up like he did the man himself. It leaves your whole body tingling, your heart pounding in your ears, your cunt gushing by the time he sheaths himself in you. 

There’s no room left for anyone else. There’s no room for anything but you and Joel in the darkness. 

It’s too late before either of you realize he’s triggered his own rut. Your body responds beautifully, burning under his touch, following your alpha into blissful oblivion. He fusses relentlessly, worried despite his own distress and desire, not wanting you to feel trapped or forced. Not again. Never again. 

It’s a promise neither of you are sure he can keep, but both know he’ll die trying. 

It isn’t as long as your first heat, but it’s all the more intense. Your little room fills with sweat, pants and groans replacing any need for words. And it’s exactly what you need—no thoughts, no memories, no dealing with what you’ve suffered. Just Joel, just… love? No, that can’t be right. Just lust. 

His cock is insistent, pressing into you, filling the gaps he’d left behind. He doesn’t bother turning back to the man, doesn’t bother trying to pretend he’s anything but a mindless creature right now. And still, he’s so gentle. More gentle than he’s ever been. 

You didn’t have time to build a nest, but that’s okay. He doesn’t ever move from his place over your body, cocooning you, blocking everything else from sight. There’s just Joel. You’re warm and cozy and safe. 

You almost forget that you’re locked up at all. He keeps you on such a high with his deft fingers, mouth, and cock that you can’t even fathom a time when he might have to part from you. The lock of your cunt around his knot is your echo of his promise. Never again. 

—

“How much of this is even real?” you whisper in the fading light of your heat. Your hand is lazily raised, blocking out the fluorescents, but he catches it with his own, his thick fingers making room for themselves between yours. Locking you together in another way, keeping you close. 

“Couldn’t tell ya,” he says quietly, gruff voice even coarser in the way he holds back, keeping it soft in your ear. “Probably nothin’. But it’s there anyway.”

He was sure as shit right about that. This burning in your chest, the way your heart picked up as he wove your fingers together and tugged your hands down, using both your arms to hold you to his chest, your unified fist in the center. It’s not real, not really. You don’t know him. He doesn’t know you. There’s nothing for this heavy feeling to rest upon, no foundation for the feelings that should not be there. 

And yet.

The conversation is veering uncomfortably personal, of which you only have yourself to blame, but you run from it anyway. “You ever see Dawn of the Wolf? ” you ask, pushing for something unserious, something that’ll have him rolling his eyes and putting up a fuss about the W Word. 

That’s not what happens, though.

His breath catches for a second before rolling out in a soft sigh, his warm breath ruffling the hairs at the nape of your neck. “Yeah,” he admits. “My—” and there’s something potent in his pause. Something that saps the silliness of your subject change away and dances dangerously close to serious. 

“My daughter loved that shit,” he says. 

You can’t help the way your body stiffens. You want to roll over and look at him, to parse his pursed lips and warm eyes. He doesn’t let you, though, tightening his grip around your waist, fingers pressing a little more insistently in the divots between your knuckles until you settle. 

“Watched the damn movies, read the damn books, had the damn poster on her wall,” he says, something careful in his words. Like he’s trying to give this to you without giving anything up for himself. These memories he’s clutched in the recesses of his ventricles—they can’t be extracted without damaging the last soft tissue he could spare to wrap them in. 

“So, who’s team were you on?” you tease instead. 

“I didn’t give a shit,” he dismisses. A beat passes. “Why would she even have considered the wimpy blond vampire kid?”

“Oh, I see,” you say, nodding sagely. “You think the obvious choice was the tall, hairy, brooding wolf-man. I have to agree.”

“Shut up,” he grouses immediately. “It was all stupid, anyway. None of ‘em could stop whining.” 

You go to turn over again, but this time, he lets you, both of his arms cradling you in a way that makes your throat feel tacky and tight. It’s made worse by the way his eyes are bright, the flecks of green bursting through the brown like lichen in soil. 

“Never did get to see the sequel,” you say after a moment, trying to regain some sense in your brain.

He snorts. “Didn’t miss anything. I thought it couldn’t be worse than the first one but it was the stupidest two hours of my life.” 

“I can’t believe you saw Dawn of the Wolf 2, and I didn’t,” you say. A beat passes. “Will you tell me about her?” you ask, barely a whisper, afraid to break whatever is happening. 

“Not… not today,” he grants, and you take it for the huge step that it is, and nod, burying your face in his chest instead and taking a deep breath of his soothing scent. The oaky notes are easier to parse, now, much more complex. Hints of spices are there, sometimes. 

You’re getting too familiar. So much so that when the chamomile blossom of his grief leaks through, your grip on him tightens just a little, and you find yourself pressing a kiss to the thick thatch of hair beneath your cheek. 

It isn’t real, but how can it not be? How can something this intense not be real? No, it’s different. This isn’t real versus fake like something photoshopped, something on a green screen. 

This is more than that. The dotted lines that make up constellations aren’t real, but it doesn’t change the way those stars are bound together to make something unique, something breathtaking.

“I get it now,” he murmurs, breaking your existential reverie. 

“Get what?” you say, nose wrinkling.

He bumps his nose against yours, nudging at you in a way you know would involve a playful nip if he was his other self. “Why he didn’t just eat her,” he says.

You reward him with a bark of a laugh. “You’re still thinking about Dawn?” 

This time he does nip at you, catching your ear gently with very human teeth. “S’your fault,” he grumbles, and you feel it rumble through his chest. 

And yours. 

No, wait, that was your stomach. You’re suddenly starving, and with that revelation comes another, much worse one. You sit up so quickly that Joel follows suit, eyebrows raised. 

“What’s the matter?” He barks. 

“It’s the food,” you whisper. “That’s why they don’t let you share. That’s how Mike got me. It’s in the fucking food.”

He sits up, cupping your jaw. “Explain,” he growls.

“I think they’re drugging us,” you finally tell him. It’s been a haunting tug in the back of your brain, one you didn’t really want to admit to. There’s been a matching tug in your gut, the feeling of something not sitting quite right, but you couldn’t put a finger on it.

It had been twenty years since you had something like cough syrup, anyway. But that’s the feeling. The fuzzy spot between your eyes where the ground seems to swoop up, the way you move through the day underwater. 

“Fuck,” Joel whispers. But he can’t deny it makes sense. It makes too much goddamn sense. He’s been too fucking compliant, too fucked to care. He thought it was apathy borne of everything he’s been through. 

But goddamnit. He knows. He just knows you’re right.

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