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kaulitzily · 5 months ago

Text

They call me Superman

PAIRINGS: Spider-Man Bill 2010 x female reader

GENRE: smut

SYNOPSIS: However, if listen closely, can hear muffled moans, growls and body slaps, resounding smacking, teeth clanking against the piercing iron ball and a quiet, quiet declaration of love.

WARNINGS: rough sex, p in v

A/N: english is not my native language! The name doesn't fit the story a bit, because I decided to name it after a song by Superman (Eminem).

The sun was smoothly disappearing into the horizon, spreading the long rays of an orange sunset across, sinking into the sharp corners of skyscrapers, reflecting off glass surfaces and painfully cutting into the eyes with a bright warm light. The streets of London are extremely crowded. Long snakes of cars that stand in endless traffic jams, crowds of people walking outdoors, eating in local bakeries or enjoying the nature of parks.

You were twirling a fresh newspaper in your hands, reading the same headline over and over again. A bold inscription on gray paper reads: “An unknown man in a mask saved our city again! The fight that took place between Spider-Man and Vulture took place in the central clock tower of Big Ben. A lot of damage was done to the building.”

The lines cling to the soul, forcing you to hold your breath for a moment, and then take a deep breath. It was as if there wasn't enough oxygen in your chest, so you went to the panoramic window and opened it wide, letting a cold stream of wind into the apartment. It was already rapidly getting dark outside, the whole of London was in the cold shadow of the night, streetlights alternately began to illuminate the path of passers-by.

You sat down on an armchair, grabbing a color photograph from the coffee table with a masked man who gracefully sat on the roof of one of the buildings. You took this photo a long time ago, but you still didn't dare send it to the press, because it became unpleasant from the realization that this guy would be slandered in the future, as always.

Suddenly, a rustle was heard from the window. You frowned and walked over to him, resting your palms on the windowsill. There was no one there, but your hands slipped, and you almost fell out the window, but someone else's strong arms grabbed you tightly by the waist, pressing your back against your elastic chest. You sighed in surprise, grabbing the savior by the venous hands. Looking down, you saw a dark blue fabric with a strange and rather familiar pattern.. Is that really it?..

A sob escapes from your chest by itself, and you immediately push away from the rescuer. Of course, it was none other than Spider-Man himself. The mesh of the "spider web" on his suit shone beautifully from the light of the street lamps. His sharp features cast bulky shadows, and there was a grin on his plump lips. You stumbled back, eyes wide. There was a photo on the floor that you had been looking at earlier. He squatted down and picked up the photo, letting out a mocking laugh. His gaze was directed entirely at you, and his eyes flashed unkindly.

“It's not a bad photo, is it?” His low voice made me start up. Right now you felt like a real prey in the hands of a predator.

You swallowed hard, a sticky ball of saliva, watching him intently, afraid to move once again.

“Come on, why are you acting like we don't know each other?” A voice came to your ear, and you screamed, recoiling from the hero who suddenly appeared next to you. He laughed and grabbed you by the waist, roughly and closely pressing you against his hot body. And you knew why and why he came to you. After all, it was you who turned him over to the press, photographed him from under the silence and allowed people to slander him. Maybe he's taking revenge like that. Rather, it's not possible, but that's for sure.

You tried your best to resist him, push him away from you and scream with all your might, not sparing your voice, but by doing so, on the contrary, you amused the young man, he laughed and wrapped your long hair around his fist, forcing you to throw your head back. Your heart was pounding, your blood was pounding in your veins, and you were extremely short of breath. Your head was spinning from the imbalance, it felt like it was all unreal, like it was a damn dream. You desperately wanted to push Spider-Man away, but your body was shackled by fear, and you were unable to move. Probably the only thing that kept you from falling was your nocturnal guest, who held your waist and hair tightly.

You silently closed your eyes, squinting and waiting for the subsequent punishment, trying to focus on controlling your own breathing, because at this rate you could easily have hyperventilated your lungs, at least. A strong hand moved higher, circling your chest slowly and gently, massaging your tense shoulders. It seemed to you that his touch left hot traces on your body, burning you to ashes. You felt a whole range of emotions that fell on your fragile shoulders in the form of male hands, but you were distracted from your thoughts by the low voice of the hero.

“Come on, don't be afraid, baby,” He whispered in your ear, his hot breath burning your earlobe. “I really liked your photos. You're probably a professional here, aren't you?” Bill grins, continuing to stroke your girlish shoulders and collarbones with one hand, holding your coiled hair tightly with the other, forcing you to tilt your head to the side, revealing a beautiful, neat neck.

Your body was shaking either from fear or pleasure. Your lips were pursed into a thin line, you finally stopped trying to escape. You began to concentrate on the guy's stinging touches, completely throwing all unnecessary thoughts out of your head. Your body was burning with desire, and you were trembling all over. The young man leads you to a chest of drawers and makes you bend down.

“Look in the mirror. Do you like what you see, mm?“ The hero's low, hoarse voice whispers in your ear, his lips glide over your earlobe and neck, biting and sucking, pulling your thin girlish skin into his mouth.

You stare intently into the reflection, and there you see a brunette who is barely standing on her feet, leaning weakly against the white wood of the chest of drawers, her hair is in disarray, her face is red, and her chest is heaving heavily. Strong, venous hands glide over her chest and waist, smoothly tracing all the curves of her body. He playfully hooks the hem of her T-shirt, unhurriedly lifting it higher, scratching her ribs with his short nails, kissing her neck..

Soon, a T-shirt with a print of some German rock band flies back, by a lucky chance falling neatly on the bed.

“Wow..” A faint chuckle can be heard from the guest. He smoothly outlines the outline of a red lace bra, licks his own lips and plays with the tongue piercing ball, tapping it against his fangs, moving it from side to side. Surely something unthinkable is going on in his head.

He takes out your polaroid camera from somewhere and takes a picture. You immediately start up, perplexed, trying to free yourself from the guy's hands, but he just clicks and thrusts his hips, roughly pushing against your ass, creating an imitation of a push. It made you collapse against a white tree and groan.

Bill, in turn, grins and shakes the photo, making the picture appear. His hand soothingly strokes your thigh, clad in a plaid skirt.

“Well, well, baby.. You have my pictures too, don't you? I'll keep this as a keepsake..” The photo immediately disappears somewhere, and Spider-Man turns all his attention back to you. “Remind me where we're staying..?” he says playfully and abruptly lowers both straps of your bra, making you cry out.

“Shh.. Well, what didn't I see there? Although.. You'll probably look a lot better than the ones I've already seen..” Bill's fingers deftly unfasten the lace element, throwing it away. His lips press against your delicate back skin, biting and licking, making you collapse with your chest against the cold surface of the chest of drawers. The hero slides his hot palms over your bare thighs, crawling under the worthless fabric of skirt, mercilessly scratching the skin of legs, rising higher, higher, higher..

You make a squeak and jump in someone else's arms when calloused fingers touch the most intimate, pushing back the edge of your panties...

You don't even notice how nimble fingers take turns penetrating you, driving deep and rough, contrasting with slow and gentle thrusts. He shamelessly pushes your hot walls apart, doing something incredibly obscene that makes your legs cramp and your knees tremble. His thumb simultaneously caresses the bead of your clitoris in circular movements, forcing you to moan loudly and continuously. Your shoulders were covered with red marks, and Spider-Man was whispering something very vulgar in your ear, constantly touching and squeezing your soft, rounded breasts with his free hand.

Something elastic is openly poking into your lower back, which made your cheeks flush with shame. Bill removes his hand from your chest, hurriedly and impatiently trying to get rid of the belt plaque on the loose cut of his jeans. You decide to help, and putting your hands behind your back, you quickly relieve the young man of the heavy burden of punk jeans. You wrap your manicured hands around him through the fabric of his boxers, and he even chuckled at the interesting contrast of his white underwear and your black nails, but your hand squeezing his cock immediately dispelled all the notes of mischief, from which he throws his head back along with his mohawk, moaning for a long time and stopping the movement of his fingers inside you for a moment. He growls and pulls off his boxers with a jerk, lifting your skirt and leaving a slap on your smooth buttocks, which made you scream. His fingers sloshed out of your warm interior to your disappointed whimper, but something much more substantial immediately rushes in to replace them.

The venous penis of a young man of considerable size fits completely inside you, you whimper and moan, moving your hips, wanting to feel it in action. And Bill lets you. He grabs you roughly by the hips and begins a smooth movement, staring intently at the reflection and grinning.

His organ is engulfed by the unbearable narrowness and warmth of your body, he growls and pushes into you rougher, sharper. You painfully bang your hips against the side of the chest of drawers, and the young man decides to make you arch so that it doesn't hurt so much.

His balls slap against your bulging ass, his fingers leave red marks on your delicate skin, and you whimper, giving back. Bill tilts his head back, crystal clear beads of sweat slowly trickle from his forehead, stroking his sharp cheekbones and jaw, as well as trickling down his clearly visible adam's apple and muscular chest with dark dots of nipples. His abs are tense, and a wild desire arises in the area of his pubis to fuck your soul out. To get back at you for making him look like a villain in front of the whole of London, for daring to take pictures of him from under the silence, for being so fucking beautiful..

He fucks you roughly and continuously, making you scream and squirm, clench your own hands and leave bloody crescents of nails on your palms.

“Oh my God!” You're screaming, clutching Bill's big hand tightly in your hand as he presses his prominent chest against your back. He grins.

“God? Huh.. They usually call me a street bully,” He roughly punches you into a chest of drawers, hissing in your ear through his teeth: “Or a looter, a murderer, a vandal, a monster.” His cock slides a lot harder and deeper, as if trying to get back at you for all the labels they put on him because of your fault. “Do you know who came up with all this? In the next newspaper, should I expect the headlines to say "god" instead of all that filth, huh? Tell me..” Kaulitz's hips are hammering more often, the thrusts are becoming more and more erratic. You come with a deep, long moan, unable to stand this guy's rhythm any longer. He quickly slips out of you, roughly bringing you to your knees.

“Will you apologize properly, baby?” Bill gently strokes your head, pushing you, who has not yet had time to recover from orgasm, into action. You obediently open your mouth, ready to take it completely. Your hot tongue slides over the flushed head of his cock, collecting the remnants of your own semen. You play with the tip of your tongue on his urethra, making him moan loudly and squeeze your hair. You circle his venous penis, not missing a single irregularity, passing deeper into your hot narrow throat. Bill licks his lips, shaking convulsively. He wrapped your long hair in his fist and began to roughly fuck your mouth, moving his hips. You stroke his thighs, scratch with your long nails, take him deeper.

After a couple of deep thrusts, Spider-Man pours into your mouth, looks at you through his fox squint from top to bottom, arrogantly watching as you swallow everything without a trace, finally running your tongue along his entire length, collecting the remaining layer of semen on the surface.

“Good girl..” He breathes heavily and swallows the saliva that has accumulated in his mouth, picks you up by the hair and kisses you wetly, deeply and passionately, after a while he pulls away and grins. “What about the second round?”

The sun has long since disappeared into the horizon, spreading the long rays of an orange sunset across, drowning in the sharp corners of skyscrapers, reflecting off glass surfaces and painfully cutting into the eyes with a bright warm light.

The streets of London are completely empty.

There are no longer those long snakes of cars that stood in endless traffic jams, there are no crowds of people who walked in the fresh air, eating in local bakeries or enjoying the nature of parks. Everything was replaced by bright signs of clubs and restaurants, light from the windows of multi-storey apartments and the rays of a large yellow moon. Fast motorcycles and the sound of water from fountains can be heard on the street. However, if listen closely, can hear muffled moans, growls and body slaps, resounding smacking, teeth clanking against the piercing iron ball and a quiet, quiet declaration of love.

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ghostlynightpanda · 1 month ago

Note

I just got this idea in my head!!

It’s a Narumi Gen x GN! Reader

Let’s just pretend the fight against Kaiju No 9 was done. Could you write where a Narumi is recovering from serious injuries in a hospital after pushing his retinas beyond their own limits? He’s dealing with the possibility of permanent damage that could possibly make him blind forever, and how he’s struggling with the emotional weight of vulnerability and uncertainty. As he reflects on what he’s lost, someone (as in reader) close to him visits—someone whose quiet presence brings him unexpected comfort.

Something like that!! Use your imagination :D

Through the Darkness

A/N: I’m so sorry this took so long! I’m currently in the middle of exam preparations and working on my master’s thesis. Also, I haven’t read the Kaiju No. 8 manga, so I only know Narumi from the end of the first season. All the information about the fight against Kaiju No. 9 and his equipment comes from various internet sources, so I’m not entirely sure everything is 100% accurate—but I did my best! I still hope you enjoy it!

synopsis: After a devastating battle leaves Gen Narumi possibly blind and grappling with the loss of his identity, your quiet, unwavering presence becomes his anchor—reminding him that even in the dark, he hasn’t lost everything. As he struggles through recovery, he finds strength not in what he sees, but in knowing you’re still by his side.

content/warnings: Narumi Gen x reader, fluff & angst, -3.194 words

The hospital room reeked of antiseptic and stillness.

Gen Narumi lay motionless on the stiff mattress, both eyes wrapped in layered bandages. Beneath them, his retinas throbbed like raw nerves, scorched by his own weapon—RT-0001, the tool that had made him a legend and might now make him obsolete.

He hadn’t spoken much since waking. Not to the doctors. Not to Kikoru, who’d stopped by twice before he asked her not to come again. And definitely not to Kafka.

Not until he knew if it was permanent.

"You’ve suffered catastrophic retinal damage,” one medic had told him, carefully, clinically. “There may be neural interface degradation... We can't promise a full recovery.”

He’d nodded. He always nodded. That was what you did when your career, your future, and the thing that made you you might have just been ripped away—and the only thing left to hold onto was dignity.

But now, alone in the dark, Narumi felt it crawling up his spine: fear.

Not of death. He'd made peace with that years ago.

But uselessness? Helplessness? The idea that he might never fight again?

That was worse.

He wasn’t dead. But something in him had died.

The memories came in flashes—bright, sharp, painful.

Kaiju No. 9 had evolved past any predictable form, shedding old limits like skin. Its clone, Beta, had already pushed Narumi hard. But the final form—when No. 9 fused with other Kaiju—was monstrous. Intelligent. Calculated.

Even then, Narumi might’ve had a shot.

But not without pushing the RT-0001 to its edge.

“RT-0001 synchronization at 92%—WARNING: retinal strain at 500% threshold.”

“Do it anyway,” he’d hissed. “Give me everything.”

And it did.

His vision fractured into layered sight: X-ray, infrared, panoramic, biological markers—Kaiju No. 9’s structural weaknesses blooming before him like petals under a microscope.

Then foresight kicked in. Movements unfolding before they happened. Counters appearing like ghosts in the corner of his vision. Data screamed across his HUD. Weak points lit like fireworks.

For one perfect, blistering moment, Gen Narumi was unstoppable.

He danced through the battlefield with brutal elegance, anticipating No. 9’s every morph, feint, and regeneration cycle. Even the creature’s reactive evolution couldn’t keep up. Narumi was five steps ahead—and closing fast.

Slash. Dodge. Grapple. Break. His attacks were no longer guesses. They were conclusions.

Until he saw the path to victory. The final strike.

And he took it—knowing full well it would cost him.

The moment his blade pierced the Kaiju’s core, a shockwave of energy pulsed outward. A retinal backlash unlike anything he'd felt before—a burn behind the eyes, white-hot and final.

Then: Nothing.

No colors. No shapes. No vision.

Just black.

He stirred in the hospital bed now, the phantom memory of the afterimage still seared into his brain. The hiss of a vent, the tick of the wall monitor, his own heartbeat against the silence. They were the only companions he had.

What am I without my eyes? What good is foresight if you can't even see what's in front of you?

He clenched his fists beneath the blanket.

He'd spent years becoming the sharpest edge in the Defense Force. The weapon built from Kaiju No. 1's corpse. The man who turned vision into victory. And now—

Now he might never open his eyes again and see a damn thing.

They hadn't said it outright, but he knew. He could hear it in their voices.

They didn't know if he'd ever return to the battlefield. If he'd ever be... useful again.

And that was the part that terrified him most.

There were no windows in this part of the medical wing. Narumi didn’t need to ask. He could tell by the way the air felt—stagnant, heavy, isolated. High-security, high-priority. Far away from the others.

He didn’t want to be seen like this anyway.

There was a time he’d thrived under attention. People watching him, counting on him, looking to him as the savior with perfect eyes and unshakable swagger. He’d been sharp, untouchable, the guy who always had a plan and saw ten moves ahead. The kind of man who made arrogance feel earned.

But now—

Now the silence left too much space for thoughts he didn’t want.

What if this is it? What if the mission, the weapons, the precision—it all ended on that battlefield?

He kept hearing it again. That last alarm before his sight shut off completely.

“Neural interface overload imminent. Retinal burnout irreversible.”

He should have stopped. Should have retreated. Should have lived to fight another day.

But there had not been another day to spare.

So he made the call—and now he was here. Not a hero. Not a weapon.

Just a man in a bed. Blind. Alone. Breaking quietly behind bandages and silence.

He didn’t notice the door open.

Didn’t hear your footsteps at first. You moved gently, like someone who wasn’t sure they were welcome.

He only knew someone was there when the air shifted—different from the sterile chill of the hospital. It was warmer. Familiar in a way that made something in his chest tighten without warning.

"...You gonna stand there or say something?"

His voice came out rougher than he meant, low and tired. He grimaced slightly, not because of pain—but because it had been a long time since he’d spoken like a person, not a patient.

There was a beat of silence. Then your voice—soft, hesitant.

“I didn’t know if you wanted visitors.”

He exhaled slowly, pressing the back of his head into the pillow. “I don’t.”

Another pause. You didn’t leave.

He didn’t ask you to.

You didn’t come rushing in with flowers or bright words. No exaggerated sympathy, no sidelong glances at the bandages, no awkward filler talk.

Just... presence.

You walked over and sat in the chair beside his bed, the legs squeaking slightly against the linoleum. Then nothing.

Not a word.

Narumi wasn’t sure what unnerved him more—your quiet or how strangely comforting it was.

He’d expected pity. Guilt. The same haunted looks the squad had given him before he told them to stop visiting. But you just sat there. Like it was normal. Like he wasn’t falling apart inch by inch.

He turned his head slightly toward you, still seeing nothing. Just the dark.

"...I can’t see you."

“I know.”

“They said it might be forever.”

“I know that too.”

That cracked something in him. Not because of what you said—but because you didn’t flinch saying it. You didn’t sugarcoat it. You didn’t pretend he was going to be fine.

No one else had done that.

He let out a long breath and finally let the mask slip.

“I burned out the RT-0001,” he muttered, voice low. “Everything I had—the foresight, the readings, the vision that let me track the Kaiju—it’s gone. I don’t know who the hell I’m supposed to be without it.”

His fists clenched the blanket.

“I was always the guy who saw it coming. Who saved people because I could see what no one else could. And now?” His voice cracked—not loud, but brittle. “Now I can’t even see my own damn hands.”

You were quiet for a moment.

Then, slowly, you reached out. Not grabbing him. Not forcing anything. Just your fingers resting lightly near his—close enough he could feel your warmth.

And in that small touch, something grounded him.

You weren’t trying to fix him. You weren’t offering hope he didn’t believe in. You were just here.

That scared him more than anything. Because it felt like something he didn’t deserve—but needed more than he could admit.

“I don’t care about what you’ve lost,” you said quietly, and your voice didn’t tremble. “You’re still Narumi. And you’re still here.”

He didn’t respond.

But he didn’t pull away.

Time passed differently in the dark.

Narumi didn’t know how long you’d sat there with him—minutes, maybe hours. But for once, the silence didn’t stretch like a punishment. It settled around him like a blanket, not a coffin. He wasn't used to quiet meaning safety.

Your hand stayed close to his. Not holding—just there. A quiet offer. A tether. Something real.

For a long time, he said nothing. He didn’t know how to talk about what he was feeling. He wasn’t sure there was a word for it—the way it hollowed him out from the inside, like the burn left behind by the RT-0001.

And yet... it was your presence that gave him the space to finally try.

“I used to think I couldn’t lose,” he murmured eventually. “Not just in battle. In anything. Like... if I could see every possibility, then I could control the outcome. Never make a mistake.”

You didn’t say anything, but you didn’t move either.

He went on.

“And now? I can’t even see where the damn bed ends. Can't tell if it's night or day. Can't even tell if I'm facing the right direction when I talk to people.”

His voice turned bitter. “What kind of commander is that?”

A long pause.

Then: “One who’s still here.”

You didn’t flinch when he scoffed. “Still here doesn’t mean anything if I can’t fight.”

“It means everything if you’re still living.”

He swallowed hard. That shouldn't have hit the way it did, but it cracked something loose inside his chest.

Living. He hadn't thought about it like that.

Since waking up, every thought had been about what he’d lost. Every hour had been measured by what he couldn’t do anymore.

But now, with your hand beside his and your voice anchoring him, he realized:

He was still here. Still breathing. Still Gen Narumi.

Wounded? Yes. Shaken? Absolutely.

But not gone.

Not yet.

“You always like this?” he asked after a while, and there was a ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth. “Quiet, I mean.”

You shrugged. “You never seemed like the type who needed noise.”

That made him actually laugh—short, rough, real. “You clearly don’t know how much I talk to myself when I game.”

“I’ve heard. You narrate your killstreaks.”

“Damn right I do.”

It was the first time since the battle that something like joy had crept into his voice. Faint and fleeting. But there.

He turned his head toward you, blind eyes searching instinctively. “You know what pisses me off most?”

“What?”

“I finally beat that bastard. I won. And it still feels like I lost.”

You were quiet for a second. Then you said something he hadn’t expected. “You didn’t lose. You paid a price. That’s different.”

The words landed hard.

He didn’t reply. He couldn’t. Something in his throat tightened.

A moment later, your fingers finally closed around his.

Not out of pity. Not to comfort a fallen hero.

Just... to be there.

And Narumi, who’d never needed anyone before, didn’t pull away. Didn’t joke. Didn’t deflect. He just let you hold his hand in the dark.

And for the first time since everything had gone black, he didn’t feel like he was falling.

Eventually, you had to go.

There were no dramatic goodbyes. No promises or reassurances. Just a soft rustle as you stood, a quiet murmur of his name, and then the soft click of the door closing behind you.

Narumi hated how much he missed your presence the second it was gone.

But the strangest part? You came back.

The next morning.

And then that night. Again.

And again after that.

No questions. No explanations. Just you—slipping into the room like you belonged there. Always quiet. Always steady. Sometimes with the scent of fresh coffee on your clothes, sometimes damp from the rain. You brought the outside world with you, but never shoved it into his face. Never forced him to engage.

You sat beside his bed, your chair always in the same place, close enough for him to know you were there. Sometimes you read. Sometimes you just closed your eyes and rested. Sometimes, if he seemed open to it, you told him about your day.

Nothing grand. Just life.

A trainee screwing up paperwork. A Kaiju alert that turned out to be a false alarm. Kikoru’s new obsession with protein bars. Kafka overworking himself again. The little things that made up the world he could no longer see.

He listened.

Sometimes he asked questions. Sometimes he didn’t. But he always listened.

The days bled together.

He started noticing when you were five minutes late. He’d never say anything, but the space beside him would feel too quiet, the world too heavy.

And then you'd arrive, and everything would shift.

He didn’t know what to call it. It wasn’t a distraction. It wasn’t comfort, exactly. It was just you. And that had become enough.

He started talking more.

Not much at first. A dry comment here. A sarcastic joke. A muttered thanks when you adjusted the covers without a word. But little by little, the silence between you turned into something softer.

He told you, eventually, what it felt like during the overload—how his vision fractured into a million pieces of color and data, how it felt like staring into a star going supernova, how beautiful and terrifying it was right before it all went black.

He told you how much he hated waking up like this. How he’d spent the first week after the surgery pretending to be asleep so the medics would leave him alone. How he’d nearly ripped the bandages off in the middle of the night once, just to see something—anything.

And then one night, when the sky outside was heavy with stormclouds, he whispered— “I was more scared after the battle than during it.”

He didn’t mean to say it. It just slipped out, like breath.

You didn’t say anything at first. But you reached out again, your hand closing around his like it had that first day.

He held on.

“I thought I’d lost everything,” he said another evening. “Not just the fight. Not just the sight. But who I was. Like... if I wasn’t the one who could see the future, who the hell was I?”

You didn’t answer with words. You just squeezed his hand, grounding him in the moment, reminding him—he was still here.

Then, one quiet morning, as you sat beside him sipping tea, he said it. Barely more than a murmur. “It calms me… having you here.”

You turned to look at him, but he didn’t face you. He didn’t have to.

“This... everything’s gone. I don’t know what’s gonna come back, or if I’ll ever be able to fight again. But you—You’re still here. I didn’t lose you.”

And that mattered more than he could say.

There were still bad days. Days when he snapped without meaning to. Days when the darkness was too thick. Days when he felt like he was drowning inside a body that no longer felt like his.

But you were there.

And somehow, that made the weight easier to carry.

He didn’t know what came next. But for now, in the middle of the unknown, in the quiet hum of machines and the soft warmth of your presence—

Narumi felt something close to peace.

Even without his sight, he’d never seen something so clearly.

Rehab began like everything else had—quietly. No fanfare, no announcements. Just a nurse at the edge of his bed one morning saying, “Let’s start.”

Narumi didn’t respond right away. He just turned his face toward the voice, bandages now gone but eyes still blank, still useless. Still waiting.

Waiting for something to come back. Or to never come back at all.

The exercises started small.

Walking the length of a room with his hand on the wall. Sitting upright without losing balance. Navigating space by memory and sound. All while his body screamed at him about how broken it still was.

His pride took the worst of it.

But he swallowed it—barely. For someone who once fought Kaiju with sniper precision and split-second foresight, struggling to find the damn bathroom felt like defeat all over again.

But you were there.

Every time.

Mornings, evenings, and sometimes both.

You learned the rhythm of his recovery without being asked. You walked beside him when he took those first steps down the sterile hallway. You stood just far enough that he had to reach but close enough that he’d never fall alone. You didn’t make it a big deal when he stumbled, and you never offered help unless he asked.

He hated how much he needed that.

And how much he needed you.

One afternoon, when he misjudged the edge of the therapy railing and slammed his shoulder hard enough to bruise, he swore under his breath and froze. Shoulders tense. Breathing shallow.

You said nothing. Just moved to stand beside him, arms crossed loosely.

“Don’t say it,” he muttered.

“I wasn’t going to.”

He waited.

Still silence.

Then, just as he was about to turn away—

“You’re doing fine, Gen.”

And somehow, that was worse. Because it meant you saw through it all. The anger. The frustration. The pain. And you stayed anyway.

It was late one evening when it happened. The hospital wing was quiet. Rehab was over for the day. The lights were dimmed, and he was sitting upright in his bed, muscles aching but stretched, breathing slow.

You were beside him, like always. Reading something softly under your breath. It didn’t matter what. He didn’t care about the story. He just liked the sound of your voice.

“I thought I wouldn’t care,” he said suddenly.

You stopped. Looked up. “About what?”

“Being alone.”

A pause.

He leaned his head back against the wall and let the truth fall out of him.

“I used to think—if I lost everything, I’d just... figure it out. Fight through. Adapt. That's what I do. You know? But when this happened—and I woke up, and they told me I might never see again... it wasn’t the blindness that scared me.”

He turned his face toward you, eyes still unfocused, but fixed on where you sat.

“It was thinking I’d have to go through it alone.”

Your breath caught. Just barely.

“But then you came. And you kept coming back. Every single day. Even when I was a bastard about it. Even when I didn’t say a damn thing.”

He let out a slow, trembling exhale.

“I don’t know what’s gonna happen with my sight. Maybe it comes back. Maybe it doesn’t. But if I’m being honest... it doesn’t matter as much as it used to.”

You didn’t move. Just listened.

“Because I can still feel you next to me. And as long as you’re here… I think I’ll be okay.”

He didn’t say I love you—not yet. But it was there. In every word. Every silence that followed. Every breath he took after saying it.

Then—hesitantly, almost shyly—he reached toward the space beside him.

And you took his hand.

Like you always had.

And this time, Narumi smiled—not forced, not bitter.

Just real.

Masterlist

#kaiju no. 8 #gen narumi #narumi gen x reader #narumi x reader #narumi gen fluff #narumi gen angst

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wackyharpy · 1 year ago

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Solicitude

Eric (Divergent) x Fem! Reader

Summary: Eric takes care of his girlfriend after the hard day.

To find more stories — masterlist

A/N: English isn't my native language. I'm obsessed with this man, oh gods! Needed to write something like this. I'd be very happy for your comments and reblogs. Enjoy :)

Warnings ⚠️

NSFW 18+, fingering, p in v sex, she/her pronouns.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○

She enters their shared apartment late in the evening locking the door. Muscles all over the body ache after hard trainings with the squad she's part of. Their commander always keeps them fit.

She finished her initiation taking the third place on the rankings board. Such success for a girl, who was one of the two among other male initiates, ended up with her becoming a part of the squad of the special purpose for secret missions.

Since the day their commander chose her, he has never regretted. It was a right decision. She is smart and witty — former Erudite — calm and placid — a perfect person not to blab plans and inside scoop.

Additionally, she's the youngest leader's girlfriend.

To start relationships with Eric wasn't an easy decision, but two years have already passed and they're still together. Unexpectedly, Eric has turned out to be a simple person to live with. Yes, the character he has, sometimes drives her crazy, although it's not the problem that can't be solved. He's dominant, intimidating and frightening, as he was the first time she met him during the initiation.

Nevertheless, she's discovered much more other facets of his personality. He's not just that cruel leader everybody is used to seeing him. Eric can cook — the first thing that surprised her a lot. He's a good listener and adviser. He motivates her to work and to become a better version of herself — she appreciates time they spend together in the gym where he shares his knowledge of how to obtain skillfulness in fighting, shooting, plotting plans and strategies.

They've learned how to be a leader and a subordinate, a mentor and a student outside the walls of their apartment. But here, they're only Eric and her. Just a boyfriend and his girlfriend.

She walks deeper in the room greeting Eric who is finishing dinner in the kitchen area. Dim lights of lanterns illuminate the space along with the moon whose rays permeate into through the panoramic windows — their apartment is situated on the upper floors of Dauntless compartment.

She rubs red weary eyes with her calloused palms, and sits at the table in the dining area. Exhales heavily. Eric places a plate with baked salmon and veggies in front of her. He constantly pays attention to her diet for her to have energy and be healthy.

"Thanks," she smiles warmly.

Being a leader, he's never provided her with advantages that may assist her easily gain a position in Dauntless. Some people may consider, she got her place in the squad because of Eric, though that's not true. Her efforts are the reason she's there. The only benefits she has is access to products of high-quality, good clothes, domicile and protection.

She eats every now and then looking at sharp features of Eric's face, at his perfect nose and slightly plump lips, at his cheekbones which she adores to contour with the finger. Her eyes go down viewing vividly black tattoos on the neck. She feels how something is tugging in the lower abdomen.

"Eat your meal. Stop gazing at me," she hears his voice's deep timbre. Abruptly, her cheeks turn pink and she chuckles. She sees how a perfect line of Eric's lips twitches in a smirk.

"Salmon is really good," she praises dinner.

"Mhm... received two fresh fish this morning."

***

They finish dinner and clean the table, then do the washing-up together. Eric hides two plates in the shelf above the faucet and turns to her immediately embracing her little petite figure with his strong arms.

"Tired?" The serene tone of his voice soothes her.

She cuddles closer to his chest smelling a pleasant male scent, and just nods. She feels a soft kiss on her forehead, and then Eric rises her from the ground taking to the bathroom.

After brushing their teeth — they've got used to do all this plain routine together, the couple gets ready to take the shower. Eric turns on water and begins to undress her. She yawns finally feeling how much her muscles are strained, in need of rest. Hooded eyes watch how Eric attentively takes off all of her clothes, then undresses himself.

He's not a type of guy to say "love you" and other sweet nothings about his feelings, but she doesn't need that. She's got used to his own tongue of showing love and affection.

Before stepping into the shower cabin, Eric checks the temperature of water, only then leads her inside along with him. She closes her eyes relaxing under warm streams realizing how much her body's got exhausted. Eric massages her shoulders gently once in a while placing kisses on them, her neck, or back. He helps to soothe knots in her strained muscles. She sighs contendetly leaning back on his powerful chest. She feels that Eric is smiling, feels his tender touching on her hips and stomach. She enjoys such moments when he takes a lead, dominates but gently, and looks after her. At times like this, she feels safe and peaceful.

After the shower, he dries her wrapping in the soft towel. Eric takes her face and kisses her affectionately and possessively.

"Fancy sex?" His look is demanding and piercing.

She bites her lower lip that doesn't escape Eric's attention.

She nods, also adding:

"But I'm too tired to be active in bed."

He is silent for several seconds, just rubs her cheeks with the thumbs. Then responds:

"I'll take care of you."

With these words, he leads her to their bed that stands opposite the floor-to-ceiling windows. She sinks in the black linen that smells of them. After coming into contact with the duvet, her head and eyelids suddenly feel heavy. Drowsiness washes over her, foggy curtain falls onto her eyes.

Eric lies beside her and she immediately snuggles her nose into his bicep closing her eyes, giving her whole body to him. He unwraps the towel revealing her steamed, after the shower, body.

His calloused hand creases her breasts, plays with her already hard nipples and then goes down reaching her labia. Eric rubs them leisurely watching her reactions. She's a bit sleepy, though still reacts to his movements gasping quietly. He finds her pulsating clit giving it proper attention until her pussy is wet enough to insert two fingers inside. Her moist insides welcome them and he starts gentle but steady movements back and forth. She breathes out, moans a little, and Eric looms his head over brushing his lips against hers.

"Like it?"

"Mhm," she cuddles closer, still keeping her eyes closed.

"Open your legs wider," he commands whispering.

She obediently does as he orders. His thrusts become faster. She feels hotness rushing to her core, something tugs, then her walls clench, and she releases sticky juices orgasming. She exhales heavily feeling pleasant relief.

Eric takes out his fingers spreading clammy liquid of her pussy all over her entrance and inner labia. He pumps his already hard dick for some time and settles himself comfortably between her lean legs. He rubs pinkish head of the cock against her drenched folds, then starts intruding with his member inside.

Eric bites his lower lip feeling how her enjoyable tightness wraps his member. They both gasp. He looms over her hiding her safely from the world conquering all her senses with only his presence.

"Eric..." sweet moan of hers.

His thrusts are slow and gentle — he's not planning to make rough sex tonight. He wants her to enjoy herself, relax, and ultimately sleep peacefully.

#eric coulter #eric divergent #eric x reader #divergent movie #divergent fanfiction #divergent fandom #divergent #jai courtney #jai courtney fanfiction #jai courtney imagines

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starberrybrunch · 3 months ago

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Like an Angel, 00 🪽

the first part of my first fic in actually 4-5 years, gnawing at the bars of my enclosure and throwing up! also on wattpad under my same user <33 she's gonna be a slowburn but will end up being fluff later i promise!

“Do you think you’re going to be able to get him in within the next two weeks? Piano lessons pick up after school next month and we’re just jam packed.”

In the sterile light of a quietly humming dental office, the tapping of fingers against the front counter persisted with the annoyance of Mrs. Lawson being tasked with yet again, the ultimate inconvenience of her son’s problematic mouth, where ever could she be tasked with finding a miraculous method to fit in another appointment between weekend trips, soccer practice, gymnastics for her oldest- and the list goes on.

The little click click clicking of the acrylics against the crisp counter, harmonizing with the numbing buzzing sound of drill work throughout the back half of the office felt like easing white noise to Gracelyn behind the desk. The sound was taxing to her coworkers, often bringing earbuds and playing music throughout the lobby to drown out the audibles- but that was just a part of there that the woman carried in her chest… the silence amidst so much living.

“Absolutely,” the woman responded, already clicking into scheduling tabs for the following week, “If 2:45 works again can we put him down for Wednesday? Cleaning and giving the little guy a check up,” she asked, despite knowing already that this was the absolute ideal appointment time.

There was a near science to a job like this, at least according to Grace. The hardest part of becoming a dental hygienist wasn;t even the damn degree, but the social exercising of it all. Bending over backwards for a kid with broken braces, parents blaming you for a cavity in someone else’s mouth, a bill too high that you didn’t create. There was a certain privilege, she knew, with being so acutely aware of the people and things happening around you. The average desk worker, stuck in a dull lobby on a sunny afternoon, probably wouldn’t care so much for profiling the availability of a random client in this way. But Gracelyn found comfort in these details, knowing things so intimately about others that she didn’t leave space to think of herself.

Having settled the Lawson’s tooth related desires for the time being with three copies of a date card, a follow up email, and a few pirate stickers for the small child heading out the door with his mother- the blonde sank comfortably into her seat for the moment. Crown and Co. Dental was dead, to be frank. The office lobby had slowed from the early morning rush of retired folks coming in for cleanings and the typical consultations.

With a moment to spare, Gracelyn picked up the minimal stack of today’s mail to sort. She thumbed meagerly through a few brochures- local fundraisers, real estate agents self advertising printables–

And an x-ray.

A patient x-ray from earlier in the day, panoramic, from a check up prior to scheduling a wisdom teeth removal, with aggressive, jagged white lines obscuring the image of the teeth and gums.

A scratchy, barbed carving into the film of a woman’s torso. Impaled by a longer stroke, with a curved hook protruding from the lower lines of the figure.

With a hitch in her throat, an unswallowable bump of something she couldn’t quite name- even some near thirty years later, Gracelyn felt the prick of a chill down her spine. She rubbed a hand against the soft material of her scrub pants, hoping the pastel blue fabric didn’t give way to the nervous sweat she was frantically trying to wipe away. “Get it together, nobody knows,” she exhaled, unsure of the impulse to console herself in an empty lobby. “Shredder, shredding it- it’s not even in my hands right now-”

Cutting off her own self monologue, a buzzing sounded like a symphony of anxiety sitting to be approached on her desk surface. It felt off putting to Grace to feel so disturbed by something so meager as she picked up the device, swiping to take a call from an unknown number.

Giving way to a shaky breath, in a desperate attempt at some type of composure, she brought the phone close. “Hello?”

“Hey, Taylor.”

💎 more to come soon!

#van palmer x reader #yellowjackets x reader #yellowjackets #yellowjackets!oc #van palmer #taissa turner #taissa x van #shauna shipman #shauna yellowjackets #jackieshauna #jackie taylor #natalie scatorccio #misty quigley #travis martinez #lottie matthews #berrybrunchwrites🥞#likeanangelseries 🪽

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bluejayy1 · 10 days ago

Note

🌙 Eid al-Adha in Gaza: No sacrifices… only the sounds of bombing!!

Please help me - my children are in real danger.

I am a father of four, living under the brunt of the genocide taking place in Gaza. 🍉

This is my story, and I am reaching out to you with a heart full of hope 💔✨, hoping someone will empathize with what my family and I are going through.

We are suffering from hunger and life-threatening pain, and we have no money, no food, and no shelter.

Time is running out, and we are facing a critical situation. I ask you to help us, either by donating or by sharing this urgent appeal with others.

Please help us 🥺

My children deserve to live happy and healthy lives, like children all over the world. My wife has a toothache and needs an urgent panoramic x-ray. It is expensive, and we cannot afford it because we don't have enough money.

So I humbly ask you to donate even a small amount, or at least share this call.

Here's my campaign link:

Thank you so much for any support you can offer. 💖🌹

✅ This account has been verified on the official list by @gaza-evacuation-funds 🙏🫂😔

!!!!

#free gaza #free palestine #donate if you can #gaza #gaza genocide #gaza strip #palestine #all eyes on palestine

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spacemilkies · 2 years ago

Text

Good Kitty

pairing: Earth—42!Miles Morales x BlackCat!Reader wc: 3k+ rating: teen a/n: another fandom, another trap. I plan for this to be a non-linear series. Feel free to send prompts for this pairing!

synopsis:

Spider-man? Never heard of him. You were Black Cat. And what you did know was that it was never a good idea to leave a world in a man's hands.

A sigh escapes your lips, a sound not born out of exhaustion but rather from the depths of sheer boredom as you shifted your weight and rolled onto your side. The warm rays of the setting sun spilled through the window, enveloping you in a soft, golden embrace. If only you had chosen to cast your gaze outward, you would have been met with a rare spectacle—a breathtaking panoramic view of the magnificent Manhattan skyline.

Less than three years had passed since you had walked the halls of your high school, a graduate filled with shattered aspirations and dry pool of dreams. Back then, the mere notion of such a view, of standing amidst the towering giants that graced the New York City skyline, was nothing short of a fantastical dream. It was a dream that seemed elusive, almost laughable, considering the harsh realities of life that had once deprived you of even the simplest means to put food on the table.

And perhaps, deep down, you still carried a glimmer of disbelief, a lingering doubt that whispered in the recesses of your mind. But as you lay there, basking in the gentle warmth of the sun's caress, you couldn't deny the profound sense of fulfillment that coursed through your veins. It wasn't solely the outcome that brought you satisfaction, but rather the journey itself, the arduous path you had traversed, and the resilience you had shown in embracing your roots.

For it had been surprisingly effortless, slipping back into the embrace of your origins, your identity intertwined with the vibrant tapestry of this city. The laughter that echoed within you was tinged with a certain fondness, an acknowledgement of the simplicity and ease with which you had found your place within this bustling metropolis. The streets, once unfamiliar and daunting, had become your familiar pathways, the very pulse of life flowing through your veins.

Your mother, a beacon of strength in the face of adversity, had tirelessly striven to keep you on the straight and narrow. The echoes of your father's incarceration still resonated within the corridors of your memory, a haunting reminder of the tumultuous path your family had been forced to tread. In those fragile years of your middle school days, the familiar embrace of modest living had been abruptly torn asunder, thrusting you all into the unforgiving shallows of Brooklyn's reality.

It was during those trying times that your mother, fueled by an indomitable spirit, took it upon herself to forge a path of honest labor. Her determination was nothing short of admirable, a testament to her unwavering love for her family. Yet, with every stride she took to ensure your well-being, the sacrifices etched themselves deeply into your collective existence. The simple pleasures that others took for granted, like an abundance of food on the table or shoes that conformed to the suggested lifespan, became luxuries beyond your reach.

Life, you discovered, was a merciless game where the cards were often dealt by the devil himself. It was a relentless battle against the odds, an unyielding struggle to make ends meet and find solace amidst the unrelenting tempest. And yet, your mother stood tall, weathering each storm with a determination that defied the very fabric of fate. She taught you resilience, instilled within you a fire that refused to be extinguished.

But even as you marveled at her strength, you couldn't help but question the cosmic forces that seemed intent on testing your resolve. The burdens that weighed upon your shoulders were never meant to be borne by the innocent. They were the unjust consequences of a world that cared little for the plight of those who fought against the currents of adversity.

For you had come to understand that while life may not always be fair, it is in the face of adversity that true character is forged. It is in the crucible of struggle that you discover the strength within, the power to rise above the hand you've been dealt.

Now, in the lap of luxury, you resided amidst opulence and excess, surrounded by an abundance of trinkets and baubles that stretched beyond the boundaries of imagination. The intricately woven rug beneath your feet held within its fibers the potential to feed your family for a year, and the resplendent chandelier suspended above the table embodied a fortune twice the worth. You lived ensconced in comfort, a world where your wants had transformed into ceaseless indulgences.

Yet, amidst this abundance, a sense of frustration gnawed at your core. The material wealth and extravagance that once held allure had now lost its luster, leaving you restless and longing for something more. The very essence of your existence now seemed devoid of purpose.

"So, I'm assuming you won't be joining," came the voice of your roommate and fellow thief, Tamara Blake, as she cast her shadow over you. For her, the thrill of the heist held a different significance. In her philosophy, as long as the wealthy continued to amass riches, there would always be treasures to claim. But you sensed that she, too, shared the underlying sentiment of disillusionment, the desire to divert her gaze from the chaotic world unfurling beyond their plush surroundings. It was another reason why you chose this apartment—a sanctuary that shielded you from the harsh realities of the world, yet one that you found difficult to leave behind entirely.

Brooklyn held memories you struggled to confront. It was the resting place of your mother, a place that felt simultaneously distant and unwelcoming. Your gaze barely grazed the surface of the deep neckline of the chiffon dress, its shimmering diamond necklace nestled in the hollow, before you turned your attention back to the river's expanse.

"Nah," you replied, dismissing the notion of joining Tamara on another exhilarating score. The thrill that once electrified your every heist had dissipated, leaving behind a hollowness that even your absence failed to disrupt. The vast fortunes amassed over time would sustain you and your descendants for generations to come. It had become nothing more than a game—a sport devoid of meaning.

"Alright, I probably won't be home tonight then," she added.

Your rested your chin against the crook of your elbow as your gaze fixated on the final ferry gliding into the dock. "Oh, you're playing with your prey this time?"

Tamara's laughter cut through the air, sharp as glass. "Hardly. I expect him to succumb before it reaches that point, but alas."

You grumbled halfheartedly as her hand affectionately tousled your tousled hair. "Want me to bring your favorite hors d'oeuvres home?"

The thought of clams and puff pastries, once delectable and enticing, now held little appeal, particularly after a day spent tucked away in an expensive clutch. "Don't bother," you dismissed, the notion hardly worth entertaining.

"Very well, then. Don't get caught up," Tamara admonished, securing a last-minute addition to her wrist—an exquisite pearl bracelet procured from last spring's collection.

"Then I wouldn't be worth my weight in diamonds," you replied, your voice carrying a hint of mischief and the thrill of a life lived on the edge. As Tamara departed, a whirlwind of confidence in her wake, you remained seated, contemplating the choices that led you to this gilded existence. Amidst the emptiness that lingered within, a flicker of longing danced in your eyes, a silent plea for purpose to infuse meaning into the richness that surrounded you.

—ฅ/ᐠ. ̫ .ᐟ\ฅ —

Once again, it is the relentless grip of boredom that finds you perched atop the towering edifices, surveying the disarray that has befallen Brooklyn. The supple leather of your suit clings to your thighs, molding to your form as you shift on the balls of your feet. Since the tragic downfall of Captain Morales, the city you once called home has become a fragmented tapestry of desolation, where memories have been reduced to ashen ruins.

There was a time when you entertained the notion of relinquishing your feline-inspired guise in exchange for a cloak of righteousness, a chance to become the hooded vigilante who championed the downtrodden. The romantic notion of stealing from the wealthy and bestowing upon the destitute held a certain allure, a homage to the age-old tales of justice. But the harsh reality came crashing down upon you with unforgiving force, as your first and only act of benevolence was unceremoniously discarded in the merciless rain. In those moments, the wound inflicted upon your spirit ran deep, an ache that lingered as a phantom pain from a life best left behind.

Now, you stand upon the precipice of a new era—a time where strength and self-reliance have become the pillars upon which you build your existence. No longer shackled by the burdens of altruism, you have embraced a philosophy of self-preservation. You have forged a path that revolves solely around your own well-being, a truth that resonates as the sweetest symphony within your soul.

In this solitude, high above the city that bears the scars of its own unraveling, you revel in the power that courses through your veins. Your senses heightened, you become keenly aware of every movement in the urban symphony below—a cacophony of life that swirls in discordant harmony. The distant sirens wail like mournful ghosts, intermingling with the screech of car tires against asphalt and the rhythmic hum of electricity pulsating through the veins of the metropolis.

Brooklyn, once a tapestry of memories, now lies before you in a state of perpetual flux—a testament to the fragility of existence and the transient nature of human aspirations. As you peer into the depths of the city's heart, you can almost taste the bitterness that permeates the air, mingling with the grit of determination and the acrid residue of lost dreams.

The night holds a different air tonight, as if the very fabric of the city has absorbed the collective unease and transformed it into an eerie calmness. The absence of screams that once reverberated through the alleys and streets transforms your rooftop traversal into a bittersweet journey down memory lane, a respite from the haunting nightmares that plagued your mind. There is no concrete reason why you find yourself here, navigating the labyrinthine paths above the cityscape. It is not mere boredom that fuels your actions tonight; there is something deeper, an indescribable longing that propels you forward.

And then, it happens—a moment that seizes your heart and halts your relentless stride. The city below unfolds before your vigilant gaze, and you notice a stark difference in the illuminated windows. A somber darkness has settled over the once vibrant tapestry of lights. Fear or the cruel whim of fate, it is impossible to discern. Yet, amidst the shadows, two windows stand out, each holding a story of its own.

One window, its fractured pane a testament to the scars of a volatile past, remains enigmatically shrouded. Your pulse quickens as memories of bittersweet delicacies flood your senses. The rich aroma of sweet potato-filled empanadas mingles with the tantalizing scent of sweet strawberry horchata. It is an intoxicating blend that tugs at your heartstrings, evoking a yearning for the familiarity and warmth that resides within. Though you know it to be a trick of the mind, the illusionary fragrance lingers, teasing your senses, rendering your heart heavy with emotions you dare not fully embrace. The mask upon your face serves as a barrier, futilely attempting to shield your eyes from the rawness that seeps through.

Refusing to linger in the grip of nostalgia, you forcefully wipe away the moisture that accumulates upon your face, an act rendered useless by the relentless saturation beneath your mask. Your resolve remains unyielding as you avert your gaze, no longer willing to succumb to the power of longing. Instead, your body surges forward, propelled by the strength that resides within, fingers grazing against the unforgiving asphalt as your form glides through the air with an effortless grace.

In this nocturnal ballet, your movements become an expression of resilience and purpose. The open patch of land, a realm teeming with untold stories and unspoken truths, lies just a few blocks away, yet you refuse to let your gaze wander in that direction.

With every stride, every leap, you embrace the freedom that comes with embracing the unknown. The night is your canvas, and you, the spider-inspired maestro, weave a symphony of vigilance and determination against the backdrop of a city that both loves and fears you.

On this side of Brooklyn, the streets held little intrigue for you, their worn pathways offering no solace in your relentless pursuit. Even within the confines of your own neighborhood, the prospect of an exhilarating hunt seemed dim. Your father's voice, a reverberating echo from the past, cautioned against playing where you slept, reminding you of the chaotic aftermath such endeavors left in their wake. His words were etched into your consciousness, a reminder of the perils that lurked within the realm of familiarity.

There was a time when you entertained the audacious notion of orchestrating your father's liberation. The notion of liberating a person, unlike pilfering a diamond-encrusted necklace, required meticulous planning and a trusted accomplice. But such an endeavor held little appeal for Tamara, whose worth in diamonds was a currency she held dear. Moreover, your correspondence with your father had dwindled to naught since your mother's untimely passing. While a prison break would undoubtedly pave the way for a long-awaited reunion, the stakes were high, and failure would plunge you both into a deeper abyss.

And yet, acceptance became your constant companion.

With a brief transition bridging the divide, your body once again guides you toward a familiar destination. You descend with practiced silence, landing softly on the worn planks of the fire escape. Gazing upon the abandoned building before you, the passage of time seems inconsequential. Its dilapidated facade holds a steadfast resilience, much like the memories you have forged within its decaying walls.

A murmur escapes your lips, barely audible, as you tread the path of reminiscence. Scaling the railing, your eyes fixate on the far corner, where a metal-plated vent rests inconspicuously. To the untrained eye, it would go unnoticed, a hidden entrance designed to challenge only the most intrepid souls. Those with arachnophobia or a discomfort for confined spaces would instinctively shy away, blissfully ignorant of its true purpose.

But you are one of the few who knows its secrets, aware that this unassuming vent conceals a passage into the depths beyond. Though your high school physique was more forgiving, you now possess an agility honed by relentless practice. With calculated finesse, you squeeze through the narrow tunnel of darkness, your body adapting to the constricting confines. The sudden drop-off awaits at the end, but you navigate it with unwavering poise, balancing precariously upon a narrow beam before gracefully leaping to the next, traversing the chasm with the assurance of a seasoned acrobat.

Upon reaching the topmost floor, a sense of coziness envelops you, but the space feels confined compared to the open expanse below. With practiced grace, you lower yourself, hanging from the sturdy beam, preparing for a seamless roll upon landing. Yet, your focus wavers, captivated by a peculiar sight.

"When did someone mend that?"

Your gaze fixates on the highest window, where a marginal break had been repaired. Its elevated position renders it impractical as an entry point, rendering its restoration all the more puzzling. Even the building's original occupants never saw fit to address it. The mended window sparks a cascade of questions, igniting your curiosity like a flame dancing upon the wick.

But as the ancient adage warns, curiosity holds the power to slay the feline.

Fortune smiles upon you, for the highest floor boasts the lowest ceilings, mitigating the impact of your roll as your body gracefully meets the floor. Gasping for air, you summon oxygen to replenish your lungs, knees resting on the ground as you survey your surroundings. Every corner brims with potential danger, and your instincts sharpen, seeking out the source of the disturbance.

A flicker of shadow dances at the edge of your vision, fleeting and elusive. Was it a mere play of light, a figment of your imagination? Uncertainty lingers, but one thing is certain: this place is no longer the sanctuary of your childhood. Its innocence has been usurped by an unseen menace, lurking in the forgotten crevices of this once-abandoned edifice.

The air gradually fills your chest, accompanied by wheezes of exertion, as you rise unsteadily to your feet. Your options unfold before you like a complex tapestry, each exit tainted with newfound doubt. The doors you once presumed accessible may now be sealed shut, the floorboards that once creaked beneath your weight, fortuitously silent. Whoever now occupies this space possesses a heightened awareness, their presence a palpable threat that chills the air.

The distorted sound of soft clicks resonates in the air, an eerie melody designed to unsettle you. It plays with your senses, toying with your perception of reality. The voice, dripping with arrogance and disdain, pierces the silence like a venomous serpent.

"I'm afraid we have no need for strays here. We're more than capable of handling our own rat problem."

With a swift, fluid motion, you drop into a defensive stance, ready to face whatever adversary dares challenge you. Your words, laced with defiance, spill forth from clenched teeth, "Cute that you think you can afford my pedigree."

The source of the voice remains elusive, a phantom lurking in the shadows. The disadvantage of being grounded gnaws at your instincts, urging you to regain the upper hand.

"Pedigree? In Brooklyn? Don't make me laugh."

The calculated movements of the unseen presence further shroud their location, deliberately traversing the beams above to obscure their tracks. In response, you coil closer to the ground, making your body smaller, while your gaze darts around, searching for any sign, any clue.

Your voice adopts a tone you reserve for targets, laced with a hint of intrigue and the promise of a challenge. It dances through the air, light and airy, as you remark, "Maybe you should. Your voice sounds enticing. Hopefully, your wit matches it."

A scoff of disdain echoes in return, prickling your nerves, a telltale sign that your words have struck a nerve.

"Does that work for you?"

The voice has shifted, now above you, the mysterious figure closing in, inching ever closer to your vulnerable position on the ground.

"It depends. Come closer, and I'll be more than happy to provide you with a demonstration."

A heavy silence descends upon the space, laden with tension and uncertainty. You are ill-prepared for this encounter, having ventured into this treacherous corner of Brooklyn without your customary utilities. The realization of your own recklessness washes over you, a bitter reminder of the risks you have taken.

Yet, if they dare attempt to confine a cat in a wet bag, you will unleash all the fury and resilience that resides within you.

"If you insist."

They remained perched above, their position granting them a vantage point to observe your every move. As the impending strike hurtles towards you, a fleeting glimmer of purple catches your eye. Instinctively, you duck beneath the incoming attack, narrowly evading its trajectory. The clash of limbs reverberates through the air as you block their follow-up assault, your own clawed glove extending in a retaliatory gesture. Their speed is astonishing, an awe-inspiring display that leaves you momentarily off balance, seized by the collar and hoisted over their shoulder.

Yet, you are not caught off guard. Prepared for this impact, you roll onto your back with practiced grace, positioning yourself strategically as they hover above you. Both of you conceal your identities behind masks, but their assailant garb does a superior job of obscuring their true self. While your mind races to decipher the symbol adorning their attire, you sense an equal curiosity emanating from beneath their weight, solid and imposing.

Baring your teeth, you hiss defiantly, a mixture of challenge and provocation dripping from your words, "So you enjoy it rough, do you?"

A cocky tilt of their chin betrays their confidence as they respond, "Most men do."

This close the vague familiarity of the voice behind the mask gnaws at you. Though the speculation is faint as you calculate your next move.

A man then.

You could work with that.

Knowing that a headbutt would yield no victor, you tap into your resourcefulness, employing your body with precision. Your foot connects with a swift strike to his solar plexus, jolting them momentarily and creating the necessary space for you to wriggle free. As you roll a few feet away, maintaining a safe distance, the sound of a wheeze escapes his masked lips. With a taunting tone, you tease, "Aw, poor baby. Has the cat got your tongue? Men always finish so soon."

Tension tenses his shoulder as he regains his footing, a charge of determination propelling his advance. His arm grips your shoulder, preparing to toss you once more. Yet, you possess the agility to seize the opportunity, pivoting with agility and daring, aligning your back with his chest, sacrificing a vulnerable position for the advantage it grants. The motion of your next move is intended to disrupt their balance, your leg deftly splitting his thighs as you attempt to shove them backward. However, your calculation of his resilience proves inaccurate, as he fiercely bring you down alongside him.

Effortlessly, he rolls atop you, overpowering your defenses, pinning your arm back with ease. His voice drips with smugness as they taunt, "You're right. You are pedigree. What do they call you? A ragdoll?"

The curl of his self-satisfied smirk ignites a blazing fire within you, fueling your determination as you squirm beneath his weight. "Still not close enough. Allow me to enlighten you," you hiss, your voice laced with an unsettling sweetness.

His hand presses against your head, drawing dangerously close. A slip-up, a momentary vulnerability that becomes your catalyst for escape. Your nails claw into the flesh of his arm, exerting force until the compressed nerve yields, weakening his left side. Taking advantage their loosened grip, you unleash a powerful back kick, squirming free from his grasp.

Now afforded the precious gift of space, you act swiftly, nimbly scaling the wall with a determination born from necessity. The strain on your arm protests the swinging motion, but you persevere, perching yourself just out of their reach on a low-bearing beam. Your chest heaves with exertion, a telltale sign of the intensity of the encounter. There is a captivating allure to the figure before you, an air of knowingness that radiates from his composed demeanor as he casually rolls his shoulders, shaking off the impact of your attack.

Even from their position below, he maintains the advantage, a fact he is acutely aware of. Yet, for reasons unbeknownst to you, he refrains from exploiting it, at least for now. "Crafty entrance," the voice remarks, revealing his knowledge of the vent. This realization dawns upon you, highlighting the indicators you carelessly overlooked. This building is undoubtedly inhabited, but the question remains—why?

"I wasn't aware someone was watching. I would have put on a better show," you retort, a playful hint in your voice.

"It was rewarding enough," he counters, his words dripping with a hint of intrigue. You envision the angle of your contorted body, the spectacle it must have presented to an observer. Indicators often accompany additional security measures, yet they allowed you to stumble into the trap instead of springing it prematurely.

"I tend to prefer finer things, but I can appreciate prime real estate. New owner?" you inquire, a note of curiosity lacing your words.

The figure leisurely crosses his arms, providing you with a slightly clearer glimpse beneath the moon's gentle illumination. Shades of dark purple shroud his form, obscuring detailed features, yet you discern a lithe and agile build. "Something like that," he responds, his tone light but tinged with an underlying sense of boredom. "It's time for you to be a good kitty and run off. I'm not fond of house cats."

His words resonate within you, as if he had plucked the thoughts from your mind. Though you had initially been poised to retreat toward the familiar path from which you came, an uncharacteristic trust in this enigmatic stranger tugs at your instincts. There is an inexplicable feeling that assures you it will be alright, that survival is not merely wishful thinking. Alternatively, you may be sealing your own fate, and Tamara would revel in newfound wealth.

"That's a shame," you remark, as you feel his eyes trailing after you as you cautiously pry open the vent. Even though he is out of sight, his presence lingers, his words carving ripples in the air.

His next statement leaves you with a wry smile, "Funny you say that. I thought you were too expensive for my taste."

As you wriggle back through the vent, ensuring a seamless exit, the metal sheet slams shut, sealing off the passage behind you. The cool breath of Brooklyn's night air embraces your heated skin, invigorating your senses. In an instant, you spring into action, traversing the building with a swiftness born of instinct and experience. Every stride, every leap, carries you closer to the boundary of your neighborhood.

Yet, in the depths of your being, something stirs—a sensation more profound than mere boredom.

Curiosity.

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