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cvnt4him · 4 months

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It doesn't make any sense to him, really.

How did you, the same person he, not that'd it even come up in conversation, helplessly.... 'massaged' himself a little too 'roughly' until he blew his load, how did you have him like this? You were towering over him on his bed as he held your hips, bucking into you, god he needs you so bad. You felt that and you ate it up. You loved the fact he needed you.

The room was filled with hot breaths and moans accompanied by groans and whines occasionally, it was a little misunderstanding really, you had never intended to get the #1 hero all hot and bothered while spending the day with him for your little vlog.

"SPENDING THE DAY WITH THE #1 HERO!!!"

The title of your YouTube video, you just wanted to meet him is all, and when he dm'd YOU, for a colab? You were over the moon!! You'd wanted to meet him for so long!! Maybe at a meet n greet, or some kind of convention, or anything else but no, he wanted to colab with you.

You were in another state at the time, filming in case you have some kind of posting material, when he told you you'd be flying in his very own private jet??? Yeah what kind of Wattpad fanfic is this?? This doesn't just happen in real life, and yet it did, to you.

The way he hugged you for the first time like he loved the warmth you aid to him, like your body was just what he needed, craved. God if only you knew what slutty dirty things he did to himself thinking of you that night, you'd be so disgusted in him!!

Or would you?

That question was all that clouded poor zuzus thoughts as he studied and observed you very closely as you spent your time together.

"we'll be staying in my penthouse! It's pretty big so you can have your own room until I fly you back out to New York!! If that's alright with you, of course."

He spoke to you in the sweetest, calmest, voice ever, his words so hypnotic, he hadn't realized you'd practically been under his spell for so long, this really was the dream, meeting your celebrity crush, STAYING WITH HIM?? You're sleeping, in his very own house. penthouse, that is.

You two played games, watched movies, and you asked him questions his very own fans would've loved to have known. And he shared every detail with you, with pure utter truth laced in his words. Everything he told you was true, because he felt he couldn't lie to you. You were so pure!! Such an angel! You didn't deserve to be lied to or harmed, ever!

"and that was 'spending the day with izuku midoriya'!!' you say as you end your video with your normal 'like n subscribe' shit and turn your camera off sighing at how much footage you'll have to edit and keep to yourself, but hey at least you got a day with your husband out of it!!

He looked at you, observingly, as you sigh and out your hand in the back of your neck in a tired sense.

"man you don't know how tiring it really is being an influencer, haha!" You joke.

He chuckled lightly, gaze still locked on you, your hands, how much smaller they are in comparison to his, how soft they are, how well you'd please him with them.

He really didn't want his mind going there with you, honest! It was never his intentions!! But how could he help himself? You were just so mesmerizing, corrupting. Izuku had never been such a pervert before he'd looked at your beautiful face!

So really, these thoughts, his growing erection that painfully twitches behind his zipper, the amount of precum leaking from his already needy and ready cock, it's your fault. All your fault.

If you hadn't looked so good, spoke to him with a honey like voice, with such a sultry tone, he wouldn't have gotten these thoughts! He wouldn't have gotten this hard.

So yeah, when he stood and glided behind you and put his hands on your shoulder, rubbing and massaging the tense area, causing a low moan to rip right out of you, which he heard and accepted, there was no way, in any way, any if this could even remotely be his fault!

He was just giving you what he knew you needed, a nice relaxing massage. Like the one he gave himself 2 weeks ago listening to the sound of your drunken voice and slurred words as you fan girls over meeting him, how much you loved his suit and how sexy you really thought he was, it's a shame you hadn't actually gotten to see him in his hero suit much today, maybe some other time!

He continued to massage you little whimpers escaping you from the rough yet gentle motions of his heavy, warm, hands, the way his hands trailed up to your neck then back down to your shoulders, it felt so amazing, you couldn't help but close your eyes and let him control you.

You hadn't realized it at first, but this slut really was pressing his oh so hard cock right up against your back, and he.. was he moaning?

The sounds of this grown adult man, whimpering lightly above you, grinding his weeping cock, against your back like some teenaged virgin, made your eyes shoot wide open, you didn't move, you say there, listening and being patient to assure this was what was actually happening.

Once you were sure, you quickly whipped your body around to look at him with a smirk, he jumped in confusion and terror, he was so afraid that you had caught onto what he was doing, and you did.

You scoffed, and looked him up and down, eyes trailing back down to his hard on them widening at the heavy amount of precum that left his still twitching cock.

Damn, well at least you knew his cock was thick and strong enough to make his pants move along with his cock.

"had you really thought I didn't notice the way you were grinding against me like a slut?"

He whimpered opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish. It was never his intentions!!! Honest!! Why won't you believe him! This is your fault anyways!! Take responsibility!

He thought of what he wanted to say, opening his mouth before being completely shut down by you, as you laughed out loud at the sight in front of you, his eyes were glossy, his cock was still twitching, and his hair was slightly messy, was he really gonna cum against your back?

"wow, I idolized a hero, a man known for his big bright smile, a smile that could save a man's life. And yet, here he is, rubbing his disgusting cock against his acquaintance, not even, technically a business partner. I never knew you were such a dirty, pathetic, slut."

He looked at you in horror, fuck. He really was a slut. And damn did it get him so hot and bothered when you called him one, the way you spat venom with each word that left your beautifully glossed lips, a smirk still painted upon your features, and you scoff once more.

He looked as if he was gonna cry, really he did, you laughed at that.

"are you really gonna cry because I caught you, being a dirty whore? God, you really are pathetic."

You laughed again, but you hadn't known, the real reason he was gonna cry was because, yeah sure, he was humiliated and embarrassed, but he was teary eyed because he was enjoying it. He knew he was a slut, only slits enjoy being degraded in such ways, with such hurtful names, he enjoyed it so much his cock started leaking again.

You wiped a tear that left your eye from the belly laugh you just had, as you sigh with a smile still on your face, you look at him in his eyes as he instantly looked away, covering his face with his arm.

"This is your fault.."

He said to you, in the softest, sluttiest, shakiest voice he could muster up.

It really was pathetic you almost busted out laughing again, but you'd thought you'd spare him the extra embarrassment.

You were curious on what he meant by 'your fault'.

"whatever do you mean, midoriya?"

You ask blessing him with the beautiful sound of you calling him by his last name.

He couldn't even look at you, let alone speak. He sighed, arm still covering his red, sweaty, freckled face.

So he asks himself again, how did you, manage to get on top of him, stroking his leaky, dribbling cock as he moans and writhes underneath you, you had demanded he tie himself up with black whip and he obeyed without a word. He needed this and you loved that.

You had been edging him for an hour now, he hadn't came but he felt like he could, all he wanted to do was cum for you, all he wanted was to please you, be inside of you!

You were really bullying and torturing him for basically defending himself against your forceful will. You were the one who started rubbing your neck as your shirt draped off of your shoulder.

You did this to him, and yet he's being punished? It wasn't fair! He didn't deserve to be edged and tortured by your, just as predicted, soft, smaller than, hands, the way you held his thick cock with both of your hands, your fingers not being able to touch around his slightly veined length, he loved how much you enjoyed getting him off like this, hell just blatantly torturing him, so you endured it for a little while longer, for you.

His pants and boxers had been ruined with his precum, you had discarded them long ago, you rub your hands up and down his cock in painfully fast strokes, it hurt so bad all he could do was sob underneath you and arch up into your touch.

His leaky cock just wouldn't stop leaking, giving you more precum every time you gave his pretty glossed cock a full stroke, you rubbed the tip of his cock repeatedly, rubbing and smearing his sticky precum around the head of his cock, earning a loud whine from him, he was putty in your pretty, manicured hands.

"do you want it, big boy? Does my big strong man need it? Need to cum?~" you tease and coo to him in a baby like voice, with pouty lips, laughing at his reactions to this, he nodded eagerly with little 'yes please's and 'mhm!'s leaving his plump lips that had been chewed to the point its practically numb.

You continued your fast strokes before pulling both your hands away laughing at his body leaning forward for your touch, the sobs and heavy tears that leave his body are genuinely so cute.

He wanted to cum so badly, he needed it! How could you be so cruel!

"please.. please! Let me.. make me cum!! Mommy~..."

He whined with a string of pleas leaving his mouth as he sobs helplessly begging for the release he needed, he could taste, he just needed you to get him there.

Oh?

That's new? And actually, oddly fucking hot, you'd never been called mommy before, you actually fucking liked it.

"what's that, pretty boy?"

He hadn't meant for it to slip! It just did! He felt far too good in the given moment and had to beg for his release which you still haven't graced upon him.

He whined and looked away, you scoff and think, how will you get him to call you mommy again?

Oh, that's right, bargaining!

"alright, midoriya, let's make a deal. You call me mommy again, no, beg for me, whilst calling me mommy, and I'll let you come, promise."

He listened, he liked the way that sounded.

He gulped down hard, look at you with those big die eyes of his, batting away tears threatening to spill from him, as he sighed shakily.

"please... mommy?" Was all he gave, his voice whispered as he looked up at you with tired pleading eyes,he sighed frowning deeply as he was sticky in sweat and his own pre, his cock still twitching and aching, he needed it but he wasn't going to make you give it to him, he truly was a good boy!!

You sighed, satisfied with what he'd given you, and you finally, granted him with the sweet relief of cumming his brains out, which he did, beautifully as he shook and turned and sobbed begging for the sweet release while you stroked his cock in a hurried pace, you were glad you'd given him the sweet and savory release he needed.

"good boy."

Was all you said as he rolled his eyes back and shot thick, white, planks of his hot white cum all over your hands, shirt, and all over his own chest, he always came a lot, so this was expected from him, however you, you hadn't expected there to be this much, and hell he was stilk cumming, little drips of his white seed still spilling from his overstimulated, twitching, cock now softening in you palm as you petted his thick girth it lying limp in your hand.

He sighed in relief, he'd finally cum and was spent, all he wanted now was to cuddle the cause of his explosion of an orgasm.

Which you granted, you hadn't expected to start dating after this, but you'd better believe you'd be meeting like this again. He vowed that he'd bend you over every surface he had to, to get you obsessed and brain dead with his cock, it belonged to you.

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AN; I feel like this is pretty good, now that I'm for the most part well rested and not in a mood, I think I wrote this well enough! Enjoy babes<33

Taggies!!; @lovelykil, @heromissy, @v3n7s, @lily-sinclair-2006

#deku smut #deku x reader #izuku is so girlie pop #izuku x reader #boku no hero academia #mha #zuzubear #ph!deku #pro hero deku #my hero #mha x reader #cvnts-post

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joocomics · 7 months

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1:06 am

pairing: bf!jiung x fem!reader

genre: smut wc: 1130

cw: bf!jiung goes from vanilla to rough, sub!reader, oral sex (m!rec), spanking, praise kink, hair pulling, name calling, light face slapping (f!rec)

Jiung savours every second of your orgasm.

His hypnotising voice coos praises at your ear, as you pulse around him rapidly from experiencing the first climax from his cock in three weeks. He’s never heard your voice brake like that before, and he holds his breath for a moment in order to not miss a single note from it. While he was on tour you made sure to keep each other entertained by exchanging a few audio messages when you both felt too touch starved, but your moans in those footages weren’t slightly close to this.

“There you go, princess…” his lips place another praise in the form of a gentle kiss on your jawline. “You did so well for me, angel. You always do.” He moves his lips lower where your skin is warm and sticky when your arched back finally lays down.

You keep humming although your rush begins to wind down, as Jiung continues to peck at your neck through wet nibbles and compliments that slip from his tongue like honey.

“Think you can give me one more, baby?” He asks, feeling his chest flutter at your cute sounds. He has a slight idea of what the answer might be from the way the rolling of your hips resumes. “I missed you so much.”

You keep him close with legs around his hips, and nails scratching his back, as you practically melt into the bed from the pleasant feeling of his weight and cologne creeping in the air - two things that always bring you comfort and security, you missed it so much.

Now is the time to ask him; to request what you’ve been craving to try with him for the past weeks you’ve been away from each other. You’ve thought about doing it through a call or a message almost every time you got off to another one of those videos, but you couldn’t get yourself to do it.

You tell him you missed him too, bringing your hands up to his shoulders.

“Can we try something different?” You speak out and his eyes blink at you curiously. “Can you be more rough with me?”

“Rough?” Jiung remains silent for a few seconds before leaning forward in your neck again. “Elaborate, baby.”

“You know…” Your voice comes out airy, as his tongue traces the shape of your ear. “You can treat me like a whore instead of a princess this time. See if you like it.”

Jiung wonders where did this come from, but he decides to leave the questions for later.

He’s not one to deny you what you want, and his mind quickly thinks of a way he can fulfill your desire along with his own.

“On your knees then.”

Excited, you quickly kneel in front of him, skimming his hand going around his shaft.

“Use me as you want, baby,” you gush impatiently, “please.”

“So needy…” He tilts his head, amused by the way you anticipate his next move. “What am I gonna do with you?” He tugs your roots, forcing you into his crotch with your ass up in the air. “Go on, take it.”

Jiung pushes you roughly, shoving his size down your throat. Instead of letting you do it on your own, his fingers all tangled in your hair keep your head steady, and he begins to fuck your mouth in a way you’re almost sure he hasn’t fucked your pussy in a while.

“Ah, shit…” His voice cracks, as his tip reaches a spot in your throat it has never before. “Fuck, feels so good… s-so fuckin’ good, stay just like that.”

You hold on Jiung’s thighs for support letting him mercilessly take over your mouth, as he babbles overwhelmed. The bucking of his hips is rogue; the strength makes you numb, but that doesn’t stop your cunt from clenching.

“How’s that feel, huh?” He speaks over the choking lewd noises erupting from your mouth. “Is this what you wanted?”

He pulls you away, leaving your mouth hanging open and empty, only strings of drool that were connected to his erection now swing from your lips. He checks out your face closely after you rise up to nod.

“Feels good,” you mumble already lightheaded. You smile at him with your dazed eyes and glistening lips. “I like it so much.”

Jiung gives your cheek a light slap, and kisses your wet lips deeply. So many thoughts are clouding his mind and they’re all about how crazy he is about you.

“I like that too,” you whine before your tongues swirl around each other.

He pulls back and flips you over, making you lay on your stomach.

Your ass receives a nice amount of slaps that fill the silence of the room, and an unexpected string of spit that gets spread between your cheeks and mixed with your arousal. Right after that moment, Jiung inserts himself into you with a single strong push through your folds, making you yelp into the cushion and kick your feet behind him.

“Here you go, doll… giving it to you like the filthy slut you are.”

It didn’t take him long to get used to watching you in this new light, not at all. Knowing that you trust him enough to give yourself to him like this; reminding him once again that he's the only guy who can have you, see you, feel you in this state helps him unlock something new in himself too.

“So fuckin’ wet,” Jiung cusses through a sharp chuckle. “You’re loving this, aren’t you, pretty slut?”

“Yes, y-yes, don’t stop…”

Gradually Jiung begins to get more and more entranced by your desperate muffled whines, and he leans forward to press your face even further into the pillow.

“You sound even more beautiful like this…” He grunts over your shoulder, pounding as fast as his hips allow him to while the corners of your eyes drop their first few tears.

Soon enough his hand leaves the back of your head, and you gasp for air after peeling off the stained pillowcase.

With a new type of hunger, your flesh gets groped again to the point it now starts to sting, before Jiung lifts your hips up.

This new angle in addition to the same rapid speed has you roll your eyes back into your head.

“Fuck, Ji—“ you mewl, feeling the pressure in your core close to bursting. “Please, wanna c-cum, p-please, please…”

“Ah, baby...” your boyfriend forces you to bend, so his hand can get a hold of your neck while he speaks a few words at your ear. “You didn’t think this through if you think you can cum whenever you want while acting like a whore.”

! please do not repost, copy or translate my works

! please keep in mind that english is not my first language. i apologise in advance for any mistakes i’ve might missed

#— writing: p1harmony #p1harmony smut #p1h smut #p1harmony hard thoughts #p1harmony hard hours #p1h hard thoughts #jiung smut #jiung hard thoughts #jiung x reader #p1h x reader #p1harmony x reader #choi jiung smut #piwon smut #piwon x reader

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bau-drabbles · 1 year

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the night we met, part 3

a/n: hope you enjoy! mentions of torture and guns throughout, kinda long and unrealistic but its fanfic so 🥴

what if haley never died that day? but what if your love for hotchner had to?

part 1, 2

"have you found her yet?!" hotch barked the order out as penelope frantically searched through copious amount of cctv footage all at once. several computer screens were open for the team, trying to find a clue on the location of where you had been taken.

"not yet sir" garcia whispered, her fingers practically flying across the keyboard silently begging for any sign where you could've left. hotch tried to reign his anger back in, this wasn't anyone fault but himself. if only he had caught up to you, just 60 seconds before you wouldn't have been here. if only that stupid kiss hadn't even happened, you wouldn't be god knows where getting tortured.

he takes a breath, knowing deep down it's not the time to react emotionally but it's hard not to, it's hard to even think rationally when he knows the likelihood of you surviving wasn't all that great. his profiler brain knew the possible outcome from this wasn't exactly high and with every second his worst fear could potentially become true.

"have you found her?" haley's voice cuts in and hotch shakes his head, his fingers pinching his temple for any signs that he must've missed. it feels overwhelming around him, flashes of people and the sounds of you seeping through his mind. it's dizzying trying to piece together what's real and what's not, flashes of you and that damned kiss is all that plays on his mind. the softness of your lips, the utter desperation between you both, the sheer passion that radiated in waves, all of it. he needed it again, he craved it.

it's even worse when his wife, the mother of his child, the very woman you almost got shot for, is standing there looking at with concern but he doesn't take any notice. he never would've though haley's voice could be so shrill and irritating, he never could've imagined himself recoiling away from her. so he simply doesn't answer her, sighing as he tries to go over the footage with garcia. he should tell her about the kiss but his lips remain closed, not willing to share anything more about you to her.

"well i can help-" "haley please. go home protect jack, he needs one of us" hotch dismisses her, his heart becoming in control of the situation. he can't stand to look at her, feeling so guilty for kissing another woman but even worse because he didn't regret doing it. his only regret was not kissing you for longer. still, hotch knew he was being overly harsh but the pure fear, the worry of you being alone and he wasn't there was enough to send him tumbling into a pit of pure distress.

but he took a breath, now was not the time to become emotional. he had to get his head in the game. the risk of losing you was too much to bear but the thought of you being out there, chained to a devil was enough to keep him going.

"police have set up roadblocks blocking any main exits in the city. if they've travelled, they can't leave the country" jj and emily come in, but the information isn't enough. who knows what the man could've been doing to you by now, who knows what terrible inflictions could've been upon you.

"we've checked any significant location but they've all come negative, the detectives are checking for any last known locations and the camera footage when they leave...." morgan and spencer are next to enter, their shoulders deflating in disappointment and sadness being unable to find you.

"we'll find her aaron" rossi pats hotch's shoulders and though the sentiment is sweet, any hope is starting to crumble and diminish now. you were just here, how could they not find you yet? the bau was supposed to be one of the safest buildings, how could someone so easily take you away like that?? his resolve was breaking and if he wasn't careful, all the feelings that were locked up tightly would begin to spill before he could've comprehended it. the truth he was too scared to admit would be admitted and he didn't know how long he could hide it for

before anyone could respond, a beeping appeared. and there beheld a sight they wished they would never have had to see.

taking a good glance at you, all seven team members found their hearts shattering piece by piece in their chests. a chorus of horrified gasps and exclaims echoed throughout the room and hotch could barely even breathe, the words dying on his lips

"aaaand here we go" you hear a click, the whirr of a computer and it takes you all your strength to awaken. an overwhelming feeling of tiredness practically envelopes your body, how easily you could fall into the darkness that awaits your presence. and then the unfamiliar feeling of being tied up grabs you attention, fear courses through your veins as your eyes open and adjust to the setting. it felt like a hospital room but this was no place where people were fixed. the sickly smell of blood and bleach is strong in the air, its overpowering and nauseating

but you calm your mind, it wasn't the time to panic. you had to think, you had to fight, you had to survive

your vision was slightly blurred looking at the man who held you captive, trying to ignore the intense throbbing in your head. your hands were cuffed to some chain, holding you upright on your feet. but he loosens something and you fall to the ground with a soft thud, vision spinning from the lack of hydration and the beatings he had given you prior.

"ohmy god.... y/n??" a breathless whisper echoes throughout the room and painfully, you glance at the camera. there, all your team members stood in complete horror. you see hotch and for the first time since you had known him, he's at a loss for words. just looking at you with so much pain, so much anger, so much fear.

you could feel your cheeks burning from shame and embarrassment, at your situation or the kiss you didn't really know. you didn't even want to know.

"y/n?? are you okay??? someone tell me she's okay please-" garcia looks on tearfully while morgan comes behind her, guiding her to the computer. truthfully they didn't have an answer to her question but they needed to focus, to keep you alive. and you didn't need to be disrupted, not when your life was at stake.

"that was to prove she's very much alive so none of you have to worry" and just like that you're brought up to your feet again, groaning when the handcuffs pinch the skin tightly. there's so much pain, you can't even pinpoint where it hurts the most.

"what is she dressed in?" someone seethed and you blink in confusion, craning your neck to see your body. it was a black gown you were in, a slit riding up the thigh. it was beautiful, too pretty to be drenched in blood. a stark contrast to the situation you were in now.

"don't worry i didn't change her, i had someone else to do it for me. my prizes have to look picture perfect" he brushes a piece of your hair and you swing your head out of the way, eliciting a kick from him. you don't even cry out, gasping for air at the momentum he had lunged at you with. your hands grip around the handcuffs but it was useless, you couldn't claw your way out of metal.

"you stupid bitch!" his fingers grip your face, you could see just how much his rage consumed him. it was unnerving to say the least, the slightest thing seemed to tick him off. there was no telling what he could do to you in this state

"enough!" hotch grits out, his fingers clenching into tight fists by his side. piece by piece his facade was cracking underneath the unsub's hammer. he couldn't reign in his control this time, not with your life being threatened

"who are you?" you grit out painfully, trying to stop the wave of nausea hitting you over and over. the man doesn't answer, the head of his gun trailing from your chin to the centre of your neck. you hear the click of the revolver and your breath is hitched, wondering if he was really going to kill you this way. wondering if you'd be shot in front of your team that remained helpless on the other side

"i've always wondered what the price was for killing an fbi agent was-" you see the man's cruel smile hit you can't answer, the fear felt overpowering.

"don't you dare" hotch snarls, surprising everyone with the intensity of his rage. and to your surprise, it had worked. the man eyed hotch and with a soft grin, dropped his gun and you felt your lungs take their first breath. tears pricked your eyes, the tiredness was practically swimming in your body but you couldn't crumble. not in front of the unsub, not in front of your team. and especially not in front of hotch.

"i think we should play a game, no?" the man smiles sadistically, pointing to you again. any strength you once held was shattering minutes by minute. your mind and body fighting over one another, wanting to give in and give up but forcing yourself to stay awake no matter what

"leave her alone! i can have you arrested on multiple accounts of-" hotch's face was unreadable, his hands etched tightly around the monitor but the unsub gestures to his mouth, to silence them all.

"if you want her alive, you'll do what i say. good luck trying to pinpoint our location, right now the cell service is bouncing around several cell towers all across the globe" frustrated, hotch looks towards garcia who was working feverishly and she sadly nods, it wasn't a clear location no matter how times she tried to hack into the system. she was hit waves and waves after a firewall which could take hours, time you didn't have to spare.

"so back to the game, who wants to start? oh and if anyone moves," you feel the pinch of a knife resting dangerously on the pulse in your neck.

"one twist and she's on the ground and i'll be miles away. and this would've been all for nothing" he moves the knife down to the centre of your neck. leaving spots of blood in its wake. all of them look helplessly at each other, the unsub had them right where he wanted them and they knew. any slight movement would guarantee your death, any secret calls would have you beaten before they could hang up.

you were all at his mercy, whether they liked it or not

"derek morgan" the unsub peered around the group and his eyes settle on him eerily. morgan gulps a little, trying to calm his shaking hands. his eyes looks at you helplessly then back to the unsub where his gaze had hardened as puts up his profiler front once more

"we're starting off easy, how many years have you and agent l/n known each other" the question was simple enough and yet it felt like he asked into the lions den, suddenly feeling rather exposed and confused. as if any answer to this simple question would be wrong even if it was the truth

"wha-" derek began but he heard a sound of disapproval and your shocked wince as you were yanked back by your hair

"wrong answer" you weren't even given a warning or a countdown before you feel a surge of hot white pain floods through your body. painful screams rip out through your mouth, your hands desperately clawing at the handcuffs but its to no avail. the team stand there panicking, yelling at the man to stop. the pain was intense, you could've almost passed out from the pure agony crippling you

"waitwait wait stop stop!!! it's three!!! i've known her three years!!!" derek shouts, banging the screen and the pain is low dull one, you gasp and gulp for oxygen that never fully reaches your lungs.

"if you had answered the first time around, none of this would have happened would it?" he scowls, giving you a nudge with the stick. you gasp out for air, your tongue heavy on your lips as your body groans against the ties holding you up

"hurry up garcia" hotch commands under his breath to penelope, her eyes watering as she's trying desperately get some location on you. jj and emily help, trying not to look at the horror that was unfolding and focus their attention on bringing you back safely.

"i'm so sorry, i'm so sorry-" morgan whispers, his hands shaking looking to and back from you and the unsub. hotch can only stare with his mind spinning, breathing coming out in short bursts, his heart feeling like it had plunged to the deepest darkest parts of the earth. he's losing his composure and as much as he's trying to reel it back, it keeps slipping from him. leaving nothing but a vulnerable scared man

"how you doing?" the man prods your head and you could only gasp at the anguish flooding your body. if it weren't for the incredibly tight rope holding you upright, you would've collapsed a long time ago.

"doesn't she look so pretty?" he holds your face mockingly and turns so the rest of them can see. every member of your team feel their hearts shattering and splintering, their hitched gasps of panic at the beating.

"agent hotchner" the unsub asked another question, his dark eyes settling on hotch. a manical grin on his lips as he revels in the alarm he has inflicted on the whole team. as if it gives him satisfaction that your life danced in his hands and your team members could do nothing but watch

"truth or dare?" the unsub smirks and hotch looks at you, his stoic facade crumbling. his heart was falling into a million pieces he's not sure he'll ever recover from

"truth" hotch utters, his voice completely free from the cold tone he usually dons.

"do you love agent l/n??" the chain holding you upright once again loosens, and that sends you tumbling to the floor in a broken beaten pile. your heart was racing, partly because of the pain but mostly due to what he would answer. with a good amount of strength, you raise your head and look at the camera. looking at his face, how his eyes flickers with so many emotions and how you can practically see his resolve breaking away

hotch was a good liar but seeing your broken defeated face, being unable to help you, he had answered the question without even realising.

"yes" the murmur was soft, his voice cracking as he takes in your approach. he had caused this. he had done this to you. the promise of protection was nothing more than jumbled words at his feet. he broke the very thing he swore on you, how could ever look at you the same again?

"aww what a cute lil romantic story this has evolved into" the unsub had cackled and your head shook, glaring at both hotch and the man who had held you captive

"there's nothing... romantic about this" your voice was weak but firm, refusing to even meet hotch's eyes.

"shut up" the man had gripped you, ignoring the protest your team were calling. it felt like too much, he held your chin and you look at him, it was now or never. you had to escape, you had to be free.

you had to survive

with one swift move, all your strength goes in knocking him down. he tumbles to the table, breaking the rotting wood with ease. the instruments clatter and you get up, hissing when your abdomen stretched a little. looking down, you see your body littered with blood and bruises. a huge burn mark plastering your side as the dress ripped apart but you didn't have time to feel sorry for yourself when you hear voices crying out that he was attacking again

"in front, y/n!!" derek commands and you duck, making him fall into the table. you quickly grabbing the keys from the scattered objects on the floor, jamming it into the lock and twiddling until you felt a click. the metal loosens and you feel them slipping off, eternally grateful that for once the universe was on your side.

you didn't get time to react for when you look in front, he's there again. but your leg connects with his groin, remembering the training moves you were taught. the force of the kick was enough to paralyse him for a few minutes as he screamed. you looked around, quickly trying to find some keys to unlock the door. your freedom was close, you could practically taste it as you rushed around.

and then you had made the biggest mistake of looking into the camera for a second.

in that second you catch a glimpse of hotch's face, it completely startles you. as if the world had stilled for a fleeting moment and all you see is hotch, just looking at you with so many emotions it's hard to decipher which is the most dominant. how despite everything, you want to hug him and never let go. your body inbetween his arms and your head against his heart, protected against any and all bad in this world. and then you remember the heartache he's caused you, the moment that had led up to you getting captured and every memory is a dagger to your heart. how could things have gotten so wrong?

but it was that moment that was used to the unsub's advantage

you hear screams echoing in the room but you don't comprehend until you feel a burning sensation completely puncture your abdomen. gasping, you look down to see blood gathering at your feet and dripping down your legs and before you even look back up, the object breaks the skin a second time. as if it was all in slow motion, your teams watched the horrific steps play out like a twisted play.

"i told you not to mess with me, you stupid bitch!" he grips and twists the object once more, resulting in a breathless gasp leaving your lips. the pain felt intense, a throbbing sensation overtaking you as you collapse. the horrible sound of your skin being punctures all but echoes in hotch's head, unable to do anything but to scream your name. shocked screams echo in the bau room, penelope's fingers are furiously typing away as she squeezes her eyes, unable to stop the horrible penetrative sound of your skin being stabbed in her mind.

the pain grows worse by the second and your scream dies on your lips, eyes fluttering closed ready to accept and await the darkness that overtakes your consciousness.

"nonono.... no!!!" hotch could barely manage a whisper, banging the screen as if he could magically appear to your aide. but he was simply doomed to watch you as you suffer and collaspe to the ground, breathing quickening. this couldn't be, this couldn't be the end.

you can see him and painfully you turn to watch his face. you don't know what emotions has crossed over his features, he still looks as beautiful as he did the first day you had set eyes upon him. how lucky you were to experience what it was like to be kissed by such a man, to be able to be in the presence of such a wonderful person. your tears had blurred your vision, not out of pain but out of gratitude. even laying on this cold floor, bleeding out, you were purely thankful for him.

he had protected you before and now it was your turn, this way he could focus on his wife and child. you would never be in the way again. there's a hint of the softest smile upon your lips as your eyes close. your fists loosened, limbs becoming limp as you closed your eyes, allowing the darkness to fully encapsulate your mind and body. maybe in a different world, a lighter one, you and hotch could be together against all odds.

the screen fizzles into a black page and hotch barely lets a breath out he didn't think he was holding. his hands have gripped the chairs, he didn't trust himself to stand without the support. he could feel his eyes prickling with the tears as hard as he tried to disguise them, his world was falling apart at the seams and he couldn't do a thing to fix it. all he wants is to be with you but now he didn't even know if you were alive anymore, that thoughts sends him further spiralling in his despair. he wanted nothing more than the ground to completely swallow him whole, the lump in his throat growing bigger as his team members looks at him. partly with concern, fear and pure sadness.

the room was completely silent, everyone's faces covered with a look of pure sorrow and so much anguish.

penelope's tears won't stop trickling down her cheeks. emily and jj look at each other with helplessness, their tears shining underneath the lights. morgan and reid lean against the table their hearts thundering in their chest, completely unable to process what had just taken place while rossi sits by a chair his head in his hands at the pure shock and pain running through him.

"it-it didn't look that terrible, she could still.... be alive" against his better judgement reid offers his support softly. the crushing weight of your absence completely crumbling hotch in a way they've never seen before.

"she was stabbed twice, reid. don't be so naive to think she could've possibly survived that alongside with the beating he had delivered. you above all, should know that much" his voice was harsher than he intended, heavy as the lump in his throat grew bigger. it felt like the air was being cut off, his thoughts ricocheting across from one another as his knees give way and he crashes to the floor in pure defeat and torture. he could faintly feel someone come to his help, his name being called but his mouth refuses to answer. all he can think about, all his mind is replaying is the moment before you closed your eyes. how he wasn't there to help you, how he couldn't rescue you this time.

you could've still been there with them had he been to your aid just 60 seconds earlier. if he had chased you quickly, you wouldn't be beaten and bruised within an inch of your life and now you were... gone. his heart felt like it was being twisted painfully, gripped tight as the thought of never hearing your laugh and seeing your smile became permanent. the dam had broken and the tears spilled down his face, his hands clutching the carpet but to no avail.

what we he supposed to do now, haunting by the memory of you like this? what was he supposed to do haunted with the ghost of you?

#criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner x reader #criminal minds #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader fanfiction #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotch fanfiction #aaron hotchner x reader angst #aaron hotch x you #aaron hotch hotchner #aaron hotchner x y/n

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norman-fucking-reedus · 6 months

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I’m on a horny rampage and am tired of acting like i’m not balls deep in a Scud brainrot because I am. He’s nothing but a stoned little slut and I crave him at all hours of the day

Scud is literally a natural born sub. Like the mommy kink is so deeply rooted in his bone marrow. He’s a literally baby for you, he loves sitting in your lap and having his back rubbed or his hair played with. He just needs to be as close to you as humanly possible.

He’s very needy, like very. Scud runs off sex and weed. After about two joints he has little hearts floating around him and is begging for your attention. This brings me to my next point that Scud would actually love to be pegged. When you first suggested it he was a little weirded out, but that quickly changed after some convincing, and after you made him see literal stars.

UGH It makes me wanna literally scream he’s just so fuckable. Let’s not even act like he doesn’t jerk off in the back of that van because we all know that he does. He just gets so bored of watching cameras all day, and he just misses you so much, plus its not like anyone will know.

Oh and Scud is definitely more on the sensitive side. His whole cock is made of pure tenderness, and every little touch has his toes curling. Don’t even get me started on how he would start to feel empty from not having your strap inside him, he’d be an entire mess.

Now there are times where Scud can be a little a dominant, but that’s when he’s completely touch-deprived and needs you so bad to the point it makes him a bit feral. He remembers that he’s much stronger than you and can technically do whatever he wants. His mind and body are on overdrive, he kisses you too rough sometimes, grabs you a bit too hard, or accidentally knocks you into something.

He’s extremely eager to fuck, and can barely get himself out his clothes in his haste. Instead he just pins you against the nearest wall and hoists you up, shoving your pants down before his own. You know how much Scud loves tits, so you bunch your shirt under your chin, hooking your arms around his shoulders and watching the way he nuzzles his face between them.

I’ve also thought about Scud having some kind of kink to being recorded during sex… like he obviously won’t say it outloud but yes he wants you to record how much of a whore he is, and yes he does rewatch the footage when he jerks off

thank you for coming to my ted talk like and subscribe for more 🦅

｡･:*:･ﾟ★｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★

#scud x reader #scud fanfiction #scud blade 2 #daryl dixon #the walking dead #norman fucking reedus #the walking dead daryl #daryl fanfiction #daryl x reader

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rel124c41 · 14 days

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NARC. floyd leech

It’s a chance to prove yourself again … and to ignore this godforsaken craving for a burger.

tags: mafia au, blood and injury, mild sexual content, organized crime, emotionally repressed, food issues, nonconsensual kissing, & post-betrayal

word count: 9436

You pluck a glass of red wine from a tray. Shoulders gliding past a humanoid Cthulhu, you pour the blood-hued liquid down your snorkel and sample the taste of dry wine. It is a Pinot. Gratefully for this, you take care to pour a bit more in your snorkel. Though, just as you duck under the wayward stretch of a shark’s gesturing, cigar-holding hand, – smoke from a White Russian cigar furling out of his rubber lips like crisp, morning fog that a ship must part through – Jesus asks, scandalized, in your ears, “Are you drinking on the job?”

The wine halts its descent down your throat. Holding (almost choking on) the liquid in your mouth, your eyes momentarily widen in surprise. You throw your head back and down what is left in your snorkel, because it is necessary to communicate with an empty mouth. “I thought you said you didn’t have any eyes in here.”

No one can really blame you for how your own eyes start to flutter around the room, like tracking an energetic butterfly.

“I took the precaution of sending Rook to plant S.T.Y.X. cameras in the ballroom. I, however, did not know I would have to take any precaution against one of my spudlings being inebriated,” Jesus chastises.

Caught red-handed, you feel heat crawl up your face. “ …It’s just one drink, boss.” Even though it is soft, you can still clearly hear that admonishing huff of breath come through your ear-piece while your personal Jesus – your boss, Schoenheit – breathes with affront. You decide that you will hold the cordial glass for the rest of the night as decoration rather than drinking it.

“One too many.” The words are so cold that you feel a shell of frostbite coat your earlobe. “I expect your greatest performance, Potato. The audience is very bilious tonight.”

Bilious, as in bad-tempered. For a moment, it feels the weight of the world socks you in the ear. That you know too well. Whether they are actually watching through the S.T.Y.X. footage back home or are simply holding up an ear to tomorrow’s whispering grapevine, the audience is upset with you.

If tonight’s performance does not go well, there will be no more stage for you. The next time you appear to the audience, it will be on your curtain call. You imagine Rook (under Schoenheit’s instructions) taking a knife to your throat with all the poise of a violinist playing its instrument, the red notes splattered across the leather seats.

The thought makes you yearn to down the rest of the Pinot.

Instead, you find an appetizer table to stand by inconspicuously. And though you have already been stricken by the sight (which caused you to even grab a drink!) you glare upwards with a furrowed brow, through the polycarbonate sheets of your swim-goggles, towards the second floor.

Above the ballroom is a circular platform walkway, connected to the ground by two spiral staircases. Leaning on the golden railing that twists like interlocking peppermint canes, the left hand man of Ashengrotto fiddles with a single drumstick. It propels through his hand like a miniature helicopter blade, spinning effortlessly. Sullen and bored, his eyes flicker all across the ballroom to find a crumb of entertainment. In Floyd’s right ear, Ashengrotto is talking – yet most likely being ignored too.

His outfit is … juvenile. (the sneer blooming on your face is natural) Unlike the other attendants, the eel-mer is simply dressed in a graphic tee – your HUF graphic tee with Spider-man and Venom on it – and sweats. There is a ketchup or tomato soup or blood stain on your shirt’s collar. A pair of Monty Python bunny slippers peek out from the pooling, gray fabric around his ankles. The ears flop as he squirms back and forth on his feet.

Ashengrotto is dressed much better – an expensive, freshly pressed notch lapel suit of cobalt and swirling violet – but it is still very different from the fool’s play that is happening below them. You survey the crowd wearing rubber fish masks, diving equipment that conceals their faces, and any other variation of deep sea disguises. The ocean tonight is full of sycophants..

Most people think an Ashengrotto masquerade is the zenith of high society. Tabloids have waxed poetry about the ‘nocturnal beauty of a deep sea labyrinth where desires are found in nebulous waves’ and how the masks give ‘a thrilling sense that we are all drowned, wayward souls brought together in harmony under his glorious might’. You know better. That flowery poesy is a mere facade in a game of facades. Ashengrotto likes to throw these masquerades so often because he likes to laugh at others who unquestionably follow his every whim or will.

Schoenheit has informed you that Ashengrotto is a schadenfreude. Not too fluent in German, you asked for the translation. The two jigsaw puzzle words of schaden, which is damage, and fruede, which is joy, connect to make schadenfreude. It means Ashengrotto experiences emotional pleasure at the sight of others misfortune.

‘There is no better sight to Ashengrotto than the sight of some poor, unfortunate soul begging on their knees at his doorstep. You would do well to remember that, Potato.’

Remember it you shall and you have. One drink is not enough to send you to your knees or make you beg. However, to Schoenheit, sipping a drop of wine tilts the scale in favor of the one-out-of-ten chance of you walking up there, blowing your cover, and smashing the empty glass in Floyd’s face.

Instead of doing that, you ask conversationally, “When was a covenant struck with the Shrouds?” You wish Schoenheit would have more trust in you, but you are well aware you lost that trust. Waiting for an answer, your eyes search the environment for those mentioned cameras.

“When you were out of commission.”

All of your limbs flinch at that, as if you have just taken a bite of the world’s sourest lemon. “Ah.”

How altruistic of Schoenheit to remind you.

Being out of commission was very unlike you. For five years, you have known Schoenheit; for four, you have worked for him. In that time, sick days were once-in-a-lifetime events. You pride yourself on how effectively you worked because, for three years, you have known Schoenheit’s face and for two years, you had been in the upgraded position from canon-fodder to information recon.

Then, for one whole year, you had … well, you rather not say. Speaking it would be like swallowing a bouquet of roses but without the petals and solely the thorns. At the very least, you inform Schoenheit on new information, just in case he has not seen it on the cameras, “He’s here, boss.”

“Ah.” At least both of you are dealing with this in stride. After that faint whisper, the earpiece fixated tightly on your snorkel is quiet for a few moments. In that time, you stumble into a memory.

As the kunai slams into the wall by the door’s opening entrance, emitting a sharp warning bang, you announce to your uninvited guests, “If it’s the mailman, you can leave the package by the grocery bags like normal. If you’re here to stop my heart, someone’s already beat ya to the kill.” With that said, you let your deceased arm drop and fall limp on your mattress.

“And if it’s your boss?”

Wincing, you respond, “ … ah, I supposed you’re welcome.”

“Thank you,” Schoenheit says primly as you hear your apartment door close.

Though he says nothing, you can hear Schoenheit’s eyes flickering across each item of a break-up vomited across your single room apartment. Ah, where to even start? The snow white vivisection of the beheaded bear that he made for you at Build-A-Bear? How about the dart board where a handful of porcupine quill darts stick out of a five-tiered photo of you and him squeezed tight in an arcade’s photobooth? Yet, who could neglect to look at the real ruins of the relationship which is you, spread out like a starfish on your bed, eyes raccoon-ed with running mascara and insomnia?

After scrutinizing over the heartbreak hurricane that has torn through the room, Schoenheit starts to make his way over to you. It only takes a second to recognize that he did not come alone. You hear a second pair of shoes. “Oh, mon cher,” Rook says sullenly.

At least you don’t have to turn your head to see who it is. Body comatose in dolor, you cannot be bothered to move an atom of yourself besides the hand that feeds yourself and your bunny a bowl of carrots.

You hear one of your two superiors seat themselves at your bar as Oswald nibbles an orange stalk from your fingers. “How long do you think you have been here?”

“Must be more than a couple days, three?” You put a carrot in your mouth as you wait for the reveal.

“A week and a day,” Schoenheit supplies the answer. Then, he repeats chastising, “A full eight days.”

“Hm,” you hum, just as acknowledgement to let him know that you heard him. Eight days seems so insignificant. You press another carrot to Oswald’s lips as he takes it in his chattering teeth. As the ebon Havana whittles the vegetable down to nothing, you depress your fingers down onto his fur, feeling the vibrations of his nibbling on your chest.

Eight days? If you had the energy to scoff, you would be up in Schoenheit’s face with the loudest, most scornful scoff he has ever heard in his life, a scoff that would have the academy sending you home with a performing arts award.

Eight days is nothing!

Your apartment goes quiet for a beat. Unsure which one has previously sat down at the bar countertop, you listen to the single pair of footsteps that walks around the wreckage. Crunching glass murmurs in the air. Again, you are unsure on whether one of your two superiors has picked up a photograph frame you bludgeon to bits or has accidentally stepped on the skeleton remains of a ceramic plate you two painted downtown at some rickety pottery studio.

You bloodlet a year worth of your time for him. He left. So, you broke everything that could be a reminder of stolen seconds, minutes, and hours – even though it does not reverse the clock at all – to cement the finiteness.

No going back: that is what you wanted your destruction to symbolize. You know that is not where your feelings lie. Reversing time is all you want to do. All your love and longing is strapped to you like a huge hiking bag, and you cannot find it in yourself to shoulder off that paralysis-esque weight. Thus, it crushes you, much like how Oswald crushes down on your sternum when he starts to make biscuits.

“Do you plan to make it nine?”

That rouses you enough where you stop looking at the ceiling and drop your cheek on the right side of the bed. Schoenheit is the one sitting at your bar. Plucked straight from a vogue magazine, your boss looks like Jesus himself with his shoulder-length hair. His halo is the light shining in your set of a dozen, upside down cordial glasses. Like sleeping bats, they hang from your iron mounted, wine glass rack and cover him in evangelical sunshine. Your personal Jesus who came to console you after a break-up.

“I don’t know,” you verbalize. Moodiness makes you brave. “Why don’t you stay for the next twenty-four hours and find out?” You put another carrot in your mouth, intending to turn back to staring at the ceiling when, “Ew, bunny hair.” You flick your tongue up and down, trying to dislodge the stray black hair.

Chuckling with a dangerous undertow, Schoenheit says, “I wish I could but I have much better things to do with my time than watch you eat your pet’s hair. Time should not be wasted. I know, Potato, that you can use your time more wisely than this.”

Oswald’s hair finally out of your mouth, you bite back, “No, I’m quite content doing this forever.” This time you take care to brush your fingers on the edge of your shirt to rub off pet fur before you reach back into the bowl.

“Well, I tried to be gentle about it.”

Oswald is plucked off your lap. You give a noise of protest when the rabbit is handed to Rook. That noise is effectively silenced when a disposable syringe tip is placed on the skin folding over your carotid artery. Not yet pressing it, just a small apply of pressure to remind you of its existence.

Your slow blink is confronted by the blink of awe that rinses over Schoenheit’s face, thoroughly shocked at your lack of reaction. In the grand scheme of things, eight days truly is nothing. And, in the grand scheme of things, death really is nothing. “I loved him, Schoenheit.” You have no idea what could possibly be in the syringe. Poison made by your boss has made men weighing two hundred plus pounds drop in seconds and has made others dissolve into a bubbling puddle of red.

Thus, you continue on, bitter and thoroughly hurt, “I loved him like a garden loves the sun and rain. I loved him like a guitar loves making music. I loved him like … oh, I don’t know. More than anything really.”

“The sustenance from a kiss is a fertilizer like no other! From each replenishing embrace, a flower grows in the garth of our hearts! What a beautiful seraphim love is! A free spirited angel of our making! Some might even say finding love is like finding Heaven on Earth! Que c'est beau!”

“You’re not helping.”

“Ah, je suis désolé,” Rook apologizes, switching his energy outlet from an impromptu poetry slam to brushing Oswald’s fur in neat sections.

Schoenheit’s eyes are testy as they regard you. Two rich pools of orchid violet dissect you from the top layer of epidermis down to your bone. You are very curious to what those keen eyes could be seeing in the decrepit, disgraceful state you are in. Is there anything left to salvage from you or are you a lost cause (a potted plant, too withered to revive)?

You flinch when the syringe goes in. It feels like pinching skin between metal. As mysterious fluid flows through your carotid artery, you listen to Schoenheit’s lecture, “He has stolen from me something that was in your possession. Something that I trusted you to keep safe. That I cannot forgive.”

When the syringe is pulled out, you offer nothing more than a wince. You want to be a smartass and ask, no bandage?, but you continue to listen on. “Diligence. Excellence. Relentlessness. Those three values are what Pomefiore is founded upon.” The cap clips over the empty needle of the syringe. “I have full confidence in you that those are memorized in your mind. Yes?” Those orchid lakes seem to grow bottomless and nebulous. Which of the Greek Gods must you never look in the eyes?

Jesus pulls back from your coffin-bed. Oswald is put back on your chest like a bundle of flowers.

“The heart is flexible. There is always a place to make new love.”

You have no idea what is in the syringe but you sit up in bed, feeling refreshed like one does after a long shower or long nap.

After they leave, on your countertop and under the hanging wine glasses is a ticket to Ashengrotto’s upcoming masquerade along with three vials of swirling colors that move like tiny lava lamps of blue, red, and yellow.

“Remind him, Potato.”

So caught up in memory-lane, you startle because who are you supposed to remind? And remind them of what? Jesus (the actual Jesus, not your boss), did a week out of commission really have you in such disarray?

Yet, you know each intricate circumstance that leaves your nerves so shot. Just like you know exactly where freckle is on his back, the exact hues that blend together to make up the color of his contrasting, gazing eyes, and just like you know the print his teeth leave behind when he bites down. All that information is left in high, extensive detail in the files of your mind.

Luckily, Schoenheit was only beginning his sentence with Remind him, Potato. You listen to the rest of his words and commit them to memory. “That he is not the only one on the stage. You are there too. On the same stage.”

You inhale a tiny planet of air. Steeling yourself, you take one last glance up to the second floor. The only person who could recognize your face from the casting call of tonight’s performance stands up there, picking his nose with his pinkie like a child. Tonight is just: him, you, and this wire.

The objective of tonight – in order to proceed to the main objective – is to find someone to inject with a syringe.

You have exactly three. Blue, red, and yellow. Three plastic vials that are hidden in a pocket professionally stitched inside the inner wrist of your suit. Nestled together like newborn bunnies nursing, they lie in that pocket and await the moment you take out the needle from your boutonnière.

It is an impossible task to bypass security into an Ashengrotto masquerade. Without fail, guests are scanned down for metal lingering on their bodies. Thus, creative liberties need to be taken to complete Schoenheit’s wish. Underneath the rose pinned on your suit are three needles. They blend together with the metal found in a boutonnière, and that disguise allows you to perform on stage.

A brief [Aside], they also do not check shoes here with their metal scanners.

Each vial has a different job for tonight. Blue, red, and yellow. All your primaries gathered together underneath the veins on your non-dominant wrist.

If injected, blue will cause a seizure unlike the likes anyone has seen before, causing bones to climb into directions thought impossible of anatomy as the victim crawls upward for heavenly salvation. If injected, red will cause the punctured spot to dissolve, flesh dripping away to reveal bone that falls away like a melted jar of sugar. If injected, yellow will cause any wounds to heal, reversing all damage no matter how grotesque or twisted out of proportion.

The best thing about them is there is no need for a syringe. As soon as the needle pierces something, the liquid is pulled out of the plastic by its own fate. Right now, you look around for a masked individual (anyone besides Ashengrotto and Floyd) to empty the blue one into.

It has to be a distraction of magnetic caliber. Everyone’s focus needs to be pulled, even those of the most insignificant waiter to Ashengrotto himself. No matter what, it has to be compelling and spellbinding.

Which is why you chose a man wearing a diver’s helmet. So when his Herculean head inevitably falls, it will cause a loud clank! that is heard all the way from the second floor.

It is why your conspiracy starts off delicate; the femme/homme fatale simply spreading out their influence in subtle ways. You only know you had him ensnared in your web when the arm you are running a hand upon relaxes, his previous flinch and tension melting like a peppermint in the mouth. You flutter your eyelashes at him from behind your goggles.

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you; I was simply hoping to get the hors d'oeuvre in front of you.” You retract your hand but not without giving his elbow a teasing squeeze.

It is difficult to deduct any sort of thought from the impenetrability of his costume. Sealed away by blue-rusted brown copper, his ‘face’ is a tenebrous ebony with the words Anchor Engineering, 1913 as his temple and then as his chin. Unperturbed, you stare lovingly into the cold, lifeless circle.

He side-steps but does not leave. That’s good. As you masterfully pluck a shrimp square off the lazy susan, you make sure to turn your victim. Act uninterested in the food. Look at him as if he is your next meal.

“They always serve such extravagant, authentic seafood here. It feels as if I am truly dipping my hand into the Coral Sea and reeling in my meal from those very waters. Don’t you agree?”

The helmet sways up and down in a slow nod. His body underneath is like a statue.

You take half a bite of the shrimp square. It is an explosion of flavor; the bread, sauce, and meat combines into one sophisticated umami that excites your tastebuds. When you finish chewing, actually genuinely pleased with your bite, you hum out, “köstlich!”

And whatever fleeting interest this stranger has with you is amplified, if only by a slim margin. That flat black circle that reminds you of a bottomless fishing hole in northern ice tilts, curious at your words. A smile graces your face.

“Do you speak any German?” The helmet goes back and forth in a negative response. “I’ve picked up a bit of German in my teens. A beautiful language. Köslitch, a pretty word, no?”

His body language is poised with interest. Thank Jesus, he must think you are something exotic and seductive. That intrigue will solidify his fate. “In German, it has a double meaning.”

You finish your shrimp then continue, “It means both funny and delicious. You would call a certain snack köslitch in the same way you would call someone that makes you laugh köslitch. I think,” — Here, you grab his hand. It is ungloved and a bit coarse. Meaty in your slim hand. Gingerly, you pull his hand up towards your mouth, making sure your breath hits across each of his knuckles — “, that you could fit both meanings.”

Then, mimicking a centipede with sharp pincers, you bite hard upon his index finger. And, with both hands cradling his single hand, you slip the needle piercing the blue vial into his exposed wrist. A crescent mark of teeth lingers on the top notch of his finger.

“I’ve always had this secret yen for funny guys.” The black hole leans forward, intense. “Meet me in the bathroom on the second floor in ten minutes.”

Yet, walking away, you know the diver only has five minutes of oxygen left in his tank.

“Ya never had a burger?”

Even though, yes, you did just previously confirm that, Floyd’s awestruck words leave you wide-eyed. You are in disbelief over how … in disbelief he sounds! Lips on his cheek, lipstick-staining activity halting momentarily, you ask, “Is it really that hard to believe?”

“It’s almost impossible to believe!”

You chuckle with a dumb grin. Used to his dime-flipping moods, you lean in to continue peppering his face with kisses. Arms already around his neck, you pull him just a few more centimeters down so you speak into his ear. “Well, we just gonna have to order one after we fuuuck.”

Despite the chuffing link you have with your arms around his neck and with your legs around his waist – your crotch rubbing eagerly and teasingly up against his! – Floyd pulls back from you. It is almost comedical the look of sheer devastation of his lipstick polka-dotted face; would be too if you were not so astronomically horny. “Never? Like never never?”

Oh God, this is going to be a whole thing. “I don’t know. Maybe as a kid? Come here.” You tighten your legs around his waist when he tries to pull himself up from your apartment’s bed. Doubling down, you fasten your pace a bit when grinding down upon his crotch, feeling the familiar shape of his penis in his sweats moving against you so nicely. “Forget burgers. I want a different kind of meat.”

“I can’t just forget something like that! Who the hell grows up without eatin’ a burger!”

How you desperately wish to reverse time when his steadyfast words reach your ears. There is a determined fixation in his voice. You let your arms fall by your head as Floyd’s hands squeeze your ass; he’s now no longer reciprocating in your grinding. Putting on your best pouting face like a young actor desperate for the role, you whine, “If I knew you were going to be like this, I would have said yes.”

“But seriously, how have ya not?”

“I don’t know. It wasn’t something my parents made and now I’m on this caloric diet that has me eating whole foods.”

“A hamburger is a whole food. It’s a whole cow.”

“Ugh, I don’t know! Can we please have sex!”

You throw your head back in exasperation. Legs fall down by your side. Floyd had the munchies after coming back from your bowling date, so you thought it would be nice to brainstorm aftercare options for dinner together — ping-ponging between the idea of ordering takeout or going somewhere. Curse you and your big, dumb mouth.

“Nope! We’re goin’ out again!”

Just like that, he is skirting around your apartment to pick up the graphic tee he shucked off. His Neckface dunks are already hooked on the edge of his fingers when you sit up, readjusting your wrinkled shirt. You need to fix your cosmetics. However, when your hand falls around the oyster-shell of your compact mirror, your other hand is grabbed.

“Let’s go! Let’s go!” Floyd cheers, half-dragging you to the door. He is ignorant to your distress as the compact-mirror slips from your grip, soap-esque. “Me and my brother used to go to this place all the time. They do this whole burger of the week thing; it’s like pun-based burgers. My brother kept going back for the jokes, but I just think the grub’s good. You’ll love them! The owner’s super nice and I met his wife and kids –!”

“Floyd.” Your feet digging into the carpet finally grabs his attention. His face is equivalent to a giant question mark. “I need to check my face.”

The blank look on his face is wiped by him moving his dual-colored eyes up and down, surveying the area. His reply is genuine. “Looks fine to me, babe.” A mischievous gleam comes to his irises as he chuckles, “It’s a real sexy face. Even sexier when it’s moanin’ my name.”

Hope flares up in you. Maybe, just maybe, you can drag him back to the bed.

“Yeah, baby?” You slur huskily before pulling him into a deep kiss.

Floyd always kisses well. Somewhere in the middle of it, he spins you. Towards the bed? Hope is dashed when you hear the click of your apartment door, realizing you two are on the opposite side of it. Your boyfriend giggles the entire way down to the lobby, having successfully duped you.

The burger joint is built like a tiny house or a big shed, depending on how you view its humble spot in the universe. With the sun starting to set, the owners have powered on the string of lights crawling like a march of ants across the tiny house’s soffit. The unique footprint of Floyd’s car engine is already recognized before you enter. And, when you are seated, the waitress already knows not to ask for Floyd’s order (“He won’t order anythin’. Just trusts the slobs in the back to bring him something good.”) and the waiter claps him so hard on the shoulder you are afraid Floyd’s thin frame would break (“Haven’t seen you in a whole month! Where you been?” – here, the waiter stops and looks at you – “… and you are trying to hide things from us now?”). The energy is so light that you cannot stop yourself from leaning over your shared appetizer, waffle fries.

“You failed to mention you're a local celebrity here, you know? Warn a girl/boy before you bring them to somewhere where they’re rolling out the proverbial red carpet for them” you say, fishing a fry out of the greasy basket. You really should have done your face.

“What,” unlike you, Floyd talks with his mouth half full of words and the other half full of food, “everyone here is super lowkey.”

“I think the entire world is lowkey from your perspective.” You dot your sentence by dipping the waffle fry in the shared ketchup. “I feel like everyone is dissecting me.”

Floyd looks back again at the bar where everyone seems to be oblivious to your conversation, so deep and entangled in their own. “Nah, I don’t feel it.” And before you can refute, Floyd reaches over and bumps your chin with his finger, causing you to miss your bite. Your worry is forgotten as you dabbing your face with a napkin, laughing threats about taking the entire basket if he plays dirty with his food anymore.

At an appropriate time, your food arrives from the kitchen. It is set down on the table and this time, instead of Floyd’s shoulder being clapped, his hair is ruffled. Juice spills over the edge of the lower bun, soaking into the yeast. The bun seems to radiate its own heat as you pick up your burger – Knife to Meet You Burger (comes with thinly sliced beets) – and bring it towards your mouth.

“You eat with your pinkies up?”

Lower jaw still hanging open, you glance at Floyd. He has already taken two large bites of his burger, a ketchup mustache decorating his face. My, he really does not care about his appearance. “Hmmm?” You look down to see that your pinkies are in fact raised like two little horns.

A laugh comes out of your mouth. It has been ages since you’ve eaten finger food other than fries or maybe some whole wheat crackers. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

Floyd smiles, fond. “Cute.”

The clang as metal helmet meets ground sends a shockwave through the masquerade. A woman shrieks; when a man starts to yell out if anyone shrouded in mysterious masks might just be a doctor by chance, you make your way up the stairs.

It won’t take you long to decipher the code. The potion Schoenheit gave you yesterday heightened your senses. Hearing each click of a correct turn on the safe’s dial will be easy. Like how elevated your sight and smell are, there is a certain air about you.

Despite the entire prologue, you feel good. Heartbreak might be the costume cemented upon you in this masquerading parade but you are still capable. Pomefiore’s disciples always seek to be their best.

As you slip into Ashengrotto’s bedroom like a breeze, removing your snorkel, you forget in your joy of elevated sensations how your own heavy scent carries on the wind.

Just as the safe opens, the door to Ashengrotto’s bedroom opens.

It is a bit hard to shoulder your apartment door open with arms full of groceries, five ringlets of plastic hanging on for dear life on each of your forearms, but you still manage to do it.

Today, the click of the door seems a smidgen louder than normal. It is probably because of how you need to use your spine and hip to push open the wooden slab. Blissfully unaware your key did not manage to unlock the door on the first try like you thought, you rotate yourself so you walk into your small apartment chest first.

You would have flicked on the lights if you did not spot movement in a place that is definitely not where your bunny cage is. Five grocery bags sliding off your right arm, you hold out your second kunai, pinched in your hand.

The first kunai you throw lands a few centimeters from the man who is crouching down by your slide-open closet door, piercing the birch wood.

You take care to put down the groceries bags on your left arm. You have lettuce, eggs, and bananas in those. Hand still aimed, the point of the kunai trained straight at the spot where the intruder is, you take your non-dominant hand and turn on the lights.

“Floyd?”

Standing up – the files detailing Schoenheit’s jury tampering where two of Kingscholar’s men were killed by Schoenheit’s men and then the failed narcotics conspiracy sentence to imprison one of Ashengrotto’s men (files that could get Schoenheit arrested in the wrong hands (his) and files that could get Ashengrotto arrested in the right hands (your boss’s)) in his dominant left hand – Floyd gives you a fleeting once over. He looks as if all of your time spent together was erased from his memory. As if he has successfully forgotten it.

“It’s nothing personal, Shrimpy. Just business.”

The door of Ashengrotto’s bedroom fully opens and knocks you back into the present.

He looks handsome.

To be fair, his face has always looked handsome. He has looked handsome curling into your blankets, hair unbrushed and laughing. He has looked handsome picking you up in his car, cheek soft and squished on his steering wheel. He has looked handsome eating a burger with you, face dotted with a melange of sauce and crumbs. He looks handsome, staring down at you now.

Shock – in the terms of upsetting events that surprise you like a deer in highlights – is something Schoenheit has trained out of your system. The only man who does not act is a dead man. So, when you launch yourself to your feet, you fully anticipate getting the first punch in.

Only to be caught so off guard when your ex-boyfriend cuffs both your wrists in one large hand and sends your face reeling back in whiplash due to the connecting embrace his other hand delivers.

It feels like a spider blooming. That animal is all you can use to describe the sensation of being punched. The egg-shaped body of the arthropod is the spot where the nose lands – directly on your nose – and the spreading flame of pain is like a thousand legs stretching over your face.

A teardrop trails down the heated surface of your face as you gather your bearings. Or is it blood from a nostril? You cannot check the color of the watery drop because Floyd still has your two wrists prisoner in his single hand. With a grimace and hateful eyes, you turn so you may face him. Gaze upon his handsome face and deem it ugly.

“Shit. I didn’t mean ta hit ya that hard.” The whiplash you are receiving tonight is like a rollercoaster! Full of so many ups and downs, just like you would expect of Floyd. Still, you cannot help the look of pure dumb shock that paints itself over your face as you are suddenly fussed over.

When the hand that punched you tenderly touches your broken nose, you reel back with a growl.

“Get your hands off me!”

The files are still in your hand when you pull back. Like a magnetized magnet, Floyd follows in your desperate attempt to escape the bind he has upon you. You waste no time in clicking your heels, gaining an extra inch under your left sole. If that idiot won’t let go, you’ll force it. Left soles now sprouting a field of spikes, you bring your foot up and kick him hard in the abdomen.

Floyd falls back. The papers rustle. The click of your heels is like the tongue of a dragon sparking up a breath of fire. As his footing stumbles, you kick up and cut a long slash across his cheek and down to his lips with the knife sticking out the top of your right sole.

“Shit,” Floyd shouts as his body collides and closes the door.

When you pull your fingertips back from your face, you see that the drop from earlier was certainly blood.

Then, for a moment, you and Floyd observe each other. Intensely, both of your eyes take to tracking over the features previously known so intimately. Your eyes squint with so much vitriol that Floyd almost blurs in your vision. But, you are eating up the gourmet image of him, blood curling down the left side of his face much like the black strand curls down his right.

He smiles that familiar smile. “Hi, Shrimpy-baby.”

“...”

“Ya know, I never told ya this, but I always had this secret yen for the feisty ones.”

“Don’t spew that shit at me, you asshole.”

What a wicked game he played with you. To burrow into your life like a plump, devouring mite that took to digging deeper into the soil of your garden. A year of love is too convoluted of a scheme for a man of his ever-changing disposition to do, yet he did it. In doing so, he has destroyed your belief in the very concept of love.

This time around, you are much more unsure if the drop falling down your face is a tear or blood.

“Ya … You smell the same.” Confusion flickers over your face, so Floyd continues, “Didn’t think you’d be wearin’ the same perfume. Was almost positive I wouldn’t smell it again. Shit stinks.”

My, what a compliment. Like a practiced magician, you go to pull a syringe out from underneath your cufflink when surprise paralyzes you. Cheekbones burns as Floyd perfectly recites the French name – you distantly him saying how much he hated that language – of your perfume.

“Comme Des Garçons Avignon.” Then he names the top notes. “Smells like Roman chamomile, elemi, and incense.” Then he finishes off with, “Ya spray like twelve puffs on yourself. And ya always make sure to get in on your inner wrist before rubbin’ it into your neck.”

“There’s something evil in you.” Disgust coats your tongue as you shake your head back and forth. Why can’t he just vanish off the face of the earth? Or at least walk back into the masquerade so you can finish your job.

You cannot face the ugly truth that you still love him.

Floyd’s eyes flicker down to the ground … or perhaps only to analyze the files in your hand. All the same, a shadow falls over his features. It reminds you of each time his body shut down when emotions got too big, resemblant of powering off electronics. His next words are less confident than how he described your habits and perfume in detail. Whispering, he insists, “You should be in my life.”

What is he talking about? Your head continues shaking, almost stuck in that action. You were in his life. Both of you were so intimately entangled with one another’s life. That sentiment is now completely unrealistic; this cavern between you will never heal.

“I hate you,” you whisper, just before closing the distance.

There is a foreign sentiment you know pretty well despite the language gap. Bilingual because of Schoenheit and his right hand man, you pick up French and German much like how a child picks up alluring shells on the shoreline. You carry them in the pail of your brain. Naturally, you cannot stop one from floating to the surface as pallid plaster coats your knuckles.

Qui aime bien, châtie bien. Who loves well, punishes well.

In its original meaning, it relates to the idea that as your love grows older, you become well versed in teasing. More comfortable in your aging relationship, certain barriers fall away from the heart. The nautilus shell falls away to reveal the soft, vulnerable body of slime. Teasing happens. Tough love is natural. Right now though, as your hand clenched around a syringe falls in a diagonal arch, you use the proverb in a much more literal way.

The popcorn wall dissolves under administration of the liquid. Red churns in the tube before magical magnetism pulls into the area of injection. Floyd ducks out of way just in time and makes a grab for the hand holding the files.

TITLE: THE TEXT MESSAGE ‘IT’S NOT ME, IT’S YOU’

INT. ASHENGROTTO’S BEDROOM

OPEN on two people fighting. One holds a stack of papers large enough to be a dictionary. The other is trying half-heartedly to steal those files back, but is mostly fixated on avoiding the onslaught of punches falling in his direction. The shuffle is a violent dance. Punches are thrown and dodged. Some connect and others miss. The only sound is the huff of measured breaths, exhaling when either FLOYD or YOU attack on offense.

The room is full of three main objects; a safe, a bed, and a dresser underneath a large mirror.

FLOYD.

(exuberantly)

You’ve been holdin’ back on me. I didn’t know you could fight like this.

YOU.

…

FLOYD.

C’mon, Shrimpy, don’t be like that. Woah!

YOU

Do you ever shut up?

FLOYD.

I’d like it if you made me. Aren’t little spiders supposed to neutralize their prey with venom?

YOU.

Aren’t little eels supposed to bite their prey with teeth? … Did it feel good? Building me up to tear me down?

FLOYD.

It was just business. It had nothing ta do with us.

A punch connects with the side of FLOYD’s face. As he stumbles, a swinging leg sends his torso falling onto the dresser. It rattles like a hundred bones in a coffin shakened like a child’s birthday present.

YOU.

(voice raising)

Don’t lie again. I’m sick of being lied to by you!

FLOYD.

I never lied to you. I haven’t been lyin’ about a thing. It’s not fair that Vil gets to have ya.

YOU keep throwing punches, ignoring his words.

FLOYD, growing increasingly aggravated, abandons his position of defense. He pulls YOU in by the lapels of your suit, hoisting them up by sheer strength and slams them into the mirror above the dresser. Papers fall like autumn leaves and glass falls like snowflakes. Seen subtly behind them, a trail of blood coming from their pierced shoulders, rolling down the dresser’s side like one stretching snake of sanguine.

YOU twist yet are unable to escape the grasp.

FLOYD narrows his gold and olive brown eyes.

FLOYD. (CONT.)

I know everything about ya. I know ya can’t blow a bubble with gum. I know each mole and freckle on ya. And I know no matter how hard you try, your pinkies always go up when you eat a burger! So, you shouldn’t be with a lover who doesn’t know ya. Give him up. I can put in a good word with Azul; we could be back to how we used to be. It’s not fair that Vil gets to have you! I should have ya!

YOU

(shaking their head and laughing, haggard)

You don’t get to have me. – No-Not after what you did.

FLOYD

(angry)

You should be in my space! You should be in my life!

THE fight continues. A sharp sound much like a tongue clicking inside a mouth startles the audience. YOU press the left sole of their shoe into FLOYD’s abdomen and push back as hard as they can. A pained shout bleeds out his mouth. YOU, stumbling from the glass that managed to sink through their suit and into skin, goes to punch yet is blocked.

WITH a rough tug on YOU’s biceps, FLOYD pushes them both down to the ground. Pain flares across their back like one crashing wave. EXIT SCENE.

“Kiss me. Kiss me,” he pleads, his fingers digging so harshly into your skin that bruises will be there tomorrow. His voice is turbulent with so many emotions. “Just one. Just kiss me again.”

Fist enclosed on his shirt’s sternum, you push against him and try to rebuild the distance between you two. “Get off! Get off me, you psycho!” Each time he attempts to close the gap, you violently twist your lips away. Your body squirms like a desperate fly caught in a web. His lips collide with the corner of your lip and chin. You push back as hard as you can. “Get off me right – fucking! Floyd!”

The hands that left tomorrow’s bruises on your upper arms move to grip your writhing, wrinkled in anger face. He holds you still with tremendous strength, eye to eye. Each atom of your skull shakes with frustration. Gritted teeth almost seem to vibrate in your mouth. Despite your desperation to tear away and flee, Floyd keeps you pinned.

“I love you so much,” he confesses, dual-colored eyes brimming over. Emotion crinkles his voice. You want to scoff at his well-improvised act.

The scoff lands in Floyd’s mouth as he pulls you into a perilous kiss. Teeth act like iron gates. Closing him off from your love, you try to use each component of yourself to escape. Knees and fists curl up and push him away with fruitless strength. Nose wrinkles as if you smelt something horrid. When he tries to French-kiss you, you take the hand shoving at his chest to wrap your hand around his throat. A thumb presses hard in his trachea.

Floyd pulls back immediately, hacking and his spit flying through the air. There, you think, is your opening for freedom.

Your body rolls onto its side. You only get a shuffling inch or so away from him before he is laughing jubilantly, teeth gleaming in his mouth – Like he used to laugh at comedy shows, playing on your shitbox CRT, or like he used to laugh when breaking out into an impromptu dance, playing music and heartstrings in your kitchen. – “That’s my Shrimpy. Oh, I love you!”

Your fruitless escape is squashed as Floyd pulls you back into another kiss. This time he manages to slip his mouth past those iron gates.

According to songs, sparks fly when a kiss happens. In this moment, you feel like those sparks are not from joyous, amorous fireworks but a hundred plane engines blowing their transmission. Screaming into his mouth, you pull back so hard that your head splinters a crack into the wooden dresser behind you.

Floyd’s hands protectively cradle the back of your head after that. He rotates his body so his weight smothers. Your rotated body is once more flatten like a pancake. Lying by the dresser, you kiss – well, he kisses you. You are actively still fighting against it.

Curses and potions, you know them well. They are frequently used in your work. It is not unheard of to utilize ancient, outdated methods of magic to gain an upper hand in this dangerous tango of organized crime. Just like the Shrouds excel in technology, the Schoenheits excel in potions and curses. No matter how many charms cloaked over objects or potions brewed inside bubbling cauldrons, you have never been under a curse or tasted a potion more dangerous than love. It is the most potent, poisonous curse.

A wet drop falling from Floyd’s face falls on your cheek; tear or blood, who can tell? The next motion you make, you blame it upon the brain damage you sustained when knocking your head into the dresser’s bottom leg.

As you grab his hair and open those iron gates, you think, ‘Sorry Schoenheit.’

Slobbering into his mouth, like you are trying to fuse together, you explore the cave. Finding the familiar stalagmites of teeth and the moss spot where his canker sore from too many bedtime sodas or snacks laced with salt and vinegar. Teal hair is pulled at the root and your embrace feels more like a hook than a hand, yet Floyd still launches into the kiss with relief and excitement.

He is an everlasting object of motion. Unstoppable and breaking laws of psychics. He pushes his tongue further in, entwines it with yours. Each pressure point of contact is seductively bewitching. Floyd lets out a long, stretching groan like a widow mourning. The sound reverbs in the grottos of your interlocked mouths.

Hands flurry about in wild motion. You open up your legs and hold him pelvis to pelvis. His hands do not stop running up and down frantically from shoulders to waist. It is only because of this endless stream of movement that Floyd does not notice when you draw a Z across the back of his skull.

Pulling back from the kiss, you say a single word with closed eyes, “Somnum.”

Floyd’s own eyes fall shut and his body goes limp.

Like pushing away fallen rumble, you discard Floyd’s body to the side and bring yourself up to sitting on your knees. A shaky groan exits you. Fingers trembling from adrenaline, you smooth the pads of them over your nose – it is definitely broken – over your back – the material is wet with blood – and over your bottom lip – it radiates a soft heat. Ducking your head, you sigh.

Bewitched Sleep is one of the least complex curses. Just a simple swish of a finger writing a Z and a single Latin word, the chosen victim will fall under a temporary spell of sleep. Those guarded enough will be able to resist it though; casting a glance over at Floyd’s slumbering body, you reflect upon the notion that his iron gates must have been open the entire fight.

A glare passes over your face. It melts. Then, it comes back again stronger than before. “Such an asshole.” You bite at the air and push yourself up to your feet. One last time, you knock your heels together and the spikes underneath your left sole disappear. “You’re the most convincing actor of all, Floyd.”

It takes a while to gather up the mess of papers, shaking the glass off certain pages. Still, you pile them all back into the folder and check that none had swooped underneath the bed or dresser. As you go about collecting all the pages, you also pick up the snorkel you left by the safe. Holding it up to your ear, you say, “Have Epel send the car around to the back.”

It takes a while to receive an answer and, even when you do, the snorkel is held in your hand rather than by your ear so it is a very muffled answer. “Good work, Potato.” The praise feels empty as you stare down at Floyd’s body sleeping in a bed of glass.

He is not your problem anymore. He is not yours. Yet, it was only nine days ago that he meant everything to you and he had been yours. Just because it is over, that doesn’t mean it didn’t mean anything.

Like a sinking stone, your acid-coated heart makes itself a little elevator ride down to your stomach.

“Fuck,” you whisper before fastening your snorkel back on your face. “I’m ridiculous.”

So, ridiculously, you find yourself hooking your hands under Floyd’s armpits. Dead-esque, his head slumps forward on a limp neck. It reminds you of those nights, coming home to the apartment from the bar, each of you shouldering the other’s weight. Experienced with it, it is a fluid effort and getting Floyd on Ashengrotto’s bed is no trouble.

You shake the files in your hand. You stomp your feet to make sure each blade is inside the sole. Then, you go to leave?

Ridiculously, you find that your feet are hesitating. Shuffling indecisively on the carpet. Heavy as if cement has been poured in them. The window is only a matter of a dozen steps away yet you might as well be trying to trudge through glutinous quicksand towards a whole other planet.

Once more, your intelligent mentor’s voice rains down from the Heavens with his oh so introspective words of wisdom (this time imaginary). “Honey, ditch that loser,” Jesus-Schoenheit says.

‘Oh I wish I could. I really wish I could,’ you bemoan to the fake voice of your boss, face pinched in a grimace. As you turn around, you start to dig around in your slacks pockets.

‘I should have that pen somewhere.’ Shoving the files under your armpit, fingers flutter through the snow fields of lint at the bottom of each pocket. Where is that stupid pen? You know you were carrying a permanent tattoo marker. If you had to make a run for it after getting the codes but before opening the safe, you brought along the writing utensil so you could mark down the numbers on the length of your arm … that is, if you can find it.

A breath of relief escapes you. Uncapping the pen, you take a short moment to observe comatose Floyd. Even with his clothes elongated and stretched from your hateful hands and his skin drenched in sweat and sanguine, he rivals the very concept of beauty. Individuals favored by Aphrodite, actors or actresses with faces that belong immortalized in marble, and a blond Queen who seduces men and women with a poisonous potency: these are the type of people you surround yourself with daily. Yet, all of them look hideous in comparison to Floyd who sleeps with a slightly parted mouth and tacky blood streaming down his face. How has he warped your vision so grandly?

Upset, you force your eyes to fall away from his mesmeric features and move down to his waistline. Most of your graphic tee is untucked like normal so you have little problem with wrestling his shirt above his belly button. On his navel, above the dusting of black hair, you place the tip of the marker.

In quick yet eligible swirls, you write down your new phone number across Floyd’s V-line. A twisty six forms, an eight loops side to side, a soldier-straight one is born. You punctuate it all with a sharp dot, imagining that your very innocent pen is a dangerous knife. The stab of ink hits him so hard that he coughs in his sleep, pained.

God, you want to make him feel so much more pain than that.

Capping your marker, you pull down his shirt and pull the files from the crook of your armpit. Rereading the document’s identification, you feel just a tiny spritz of your frustration dissolve inside of you. The job is complete. Despite everyone back home thinking you would be a loose canon and fail tremendously, you manage to succeed.

Yes, your nose will have to be snapped back into place. And, you doubt Rook (under Schoenheit’s instructions) will be gentle with the whole procedure. But, at least you did not run into Ashengrotto which you consider a huge, jackpot-esque win of a night full of many ups and downs, and much lack of faith from homebase.

The door clicks open just as you reach up to your ear. Startled, your fingers depress down on the still intact communication device, sending your desolate “fucking shit” out on radio waves back to that beloved homebase.

“(Name)? (Name), what’s wrong?” Schoenheit’s voice worries in your ear as you and Ashengrotto lock eyes across his wrecked, demolished bedroom. The absolute puzzlement in those blue eyes would be amusing if only you did not know the octopus’s exact next move.

“How close is Epel?”

“He’s only one block away from your location.”

“Yeah, I got enough time.”

“Potato?”

“I’m jumping out the window,” you inform your boss just as Ashengrotto unclips the gun from his belt. Confusion has long since drained from those blueberry hues; just as hesitation has vanished magically from your feet. “Tell Epel, proceed as planned, meet me at the spot.”

“Potato! Don’t you dare jump through a window! (Name)? (Name)!”

You have a nagging suspicion that Rook (under Schoenheit’s instructions) will not be gentle when taking the glass out of your skin. It matters very little to you as the wall by your head coughs out a dusting of white plaster. A decorative new eye in Ashengrotto’s bedroom wall is just another damage left behind in the mess you have made. Something else matters much more.

There has been a dormant craving in you for disgustingly greasy food for days.

That said, you need to keep your calories in check so you could definitely use some company to reach over the sticky table and paw at your share of food. The burger of the week at yours and Floyd’s self-established ‘joint’ is Poutine on the Ritz Burger. Comes with poutine fries. Probably will put a yellow, waxy clot of cholesterol in your veins. As you leap from the window, you can already picture it perfectly.

Floyd, sitting across the table from you, licking gravy from his fingers, his shark maw gnashing back and forth noisily as he grinds down cheese curds and potatoes from your fries, looking as irresistible as a hung Da Vinci portrait.

#twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #floyd leech x reader #floyd leech #twst floyd

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chukys-mouthguard · 1 month

Text

broken memories - pt. 2

sequel to kinda tempting

3k words | loosely proof read

genre: fluff/angst

featuring: mat barzal x female reader x matt rempe

warnings: mentions of loss of pregnancy

previous chapter

It had been a month since you had broken the news to Matt about your baby. He was temporarily living with Jonathan Quick as he continued his offseason training to prepare for camp. The two of you kept in touch, often checking in on one another as you both navigated the stages of grieving.

You still talked on the phone at least twice a week, things remaining very cordial between you, which you appreciated. Never wanting to lose Matt entirely, hoping that you could remain friends despite everything.

Mat Barzal on the other hand, wasn’t being much of a friend as he’d yet to return any of your texts. Including your text you’d sent the night of the fight with Matt when he packed his things and left.

While you understood he was engaged and happy with someone else, he did promise that you could still reach out to him whenever you needed. Yet maybe that was simply a meaningless comment of comfort at the time, not something that held any true intent behind it.

You had finally started to feel like your normal self, getting fully back into work and preparing for the upcoming season. The organization pleasantly surprised you as they did not intend to fire you despite your relationship with Rempe, of course now that wouldn’t pose a problem. But you were happy that you could stay with the organization after you had become so sure this would be where you stayed for the foreseeable future should you and Matt have had your baby to raise.

Checking the time you had a little over an hour left in your work day, figuring you’d use the time to go get some footage of the recent renovations of the locker room to start making a few posts for the socials.

As you exited the elevator your phone was buzzing in your pocket, an image of Rempe brightly filling the screen. A smirk found its way across your lips at the sight of the photo. It was after his debut stadium series game, his eye black slightly smeared as he flashed a goofy smile at the camera. You’d never forget the excitement surrounding that day, but more importantly meeting Matthew.

“Hello Matthew Rempe, how can I help you?”

He chuckled at your sing-song tone as he greeted you. “I am actually getting in the car, just leaving training. But, I realized I need some stuff from the apartment, well your apartment. Can I swing by?”

Heading into the Rangers locker room you pulled your work phone from your pocket, snagging some photos and a few videos to ensure you had plenty of content to use in editing.

“Um, yeah sure. I’m finishing up here at MSG within the hour, then I’ll be heading home. I would say I can be there in like an hour or so? If that works for you?”

“Yeah, I’ll probably hit traffic on my way so that would be fine. I’ll see you soon!”

“Sounds good, see you in a bit.”

Dropping your bag on the island you headed down the hall to throw on some comfy clothes, which ended up being some shorts and a Rangers t-shirt that Matthew had left behind. You figured this wasn’t an item he was in need of so he wouldn’t mind you wearing it.

Before you could even get fully settled in from work there was a knock at your door.

“Matthew Rempe, what in the world is this?”

You eyed the boy as he carried in a box of food, setting it on the island as he wrapped you in a quick hug.

“Well, I knew you probably hadn’t eaten dinner yet. And it could be like old times, when we’d get our favorite takeout place for dinner.”

You smiled at the gesture, thinking back to how Matt’s diet surely took a turn throughout your pregnancy once the craving for Chinese food kicked in. Weekly Matt found himself bringing home whatever dish it was you craved, but he never once complained. Well, that is except for when you ended up with a better fortune in your cookie than he did.

“You really didn’t have to do this, I could’ve just made some leftovers or something.”

He shot you a playful smile as he held up the container of steamed dumplings.

“Really? You’d pass on dumplings for leftovers?”

You licked your lips as you stole the container from his hand, moving around to the other side of the island as you pulled out some plates and silverware. Passing some to Matt so he could serve up his food before the two of you found your familiar spots on the floor at your coffee table.

“So, how are you doing? Everything good?”

Nodding your head you reached for a napkin, wiping your mouth before you answered him.

“Yeah, starting to feel like my normal self again. It was a little rocky there for a bit. But, I’m starting to feel good. Able to make it through the workday without crying, which is a big plus. How about you?”

He also nodded, adjusting how he sat on the floor as he rested back on his hands.

“Yeah, same here. I mean, I still have my moments where I do the why me sort of spiel. But I would say I’ve gotten past a lot of the frustration and anger I felt for a while. And training has been freaking amazing, I’m so excited for camp. I’ve been working so hard, the boys are really impressed.”

The smile on his face as he told you about his offseason training schedule warmed your heart. A smile formed on your lips as you saw how excited he was, talking about some of the different workouts he’s pushed himself through. Matt was like a kid in a candy story as he talked about the upcoming season. He’d already come such a long way from the rookie you met at the stadium series.

“I’m really proud of you Matt, and I can tell you’ve been working hard. I can see it for sure!”

“Oh, so you were checking me out eh? The biceps are looking pretty good if I do say so myself.”

He shot you a wink as he flexed his bicep for you, making you roll your eyes playfully as you reached over to steal a bite of his sesame chicken.

“Seriously? Some things just never change I guess.”

He slightly chucked as you shrugged your shoulders. Stealing Matt’s food was always something you’d do after telling him you didn’t like his order. Which would always lead to a silly argument once you’d stolen almost half of his chicken from his plate. Leaving him with mostly rice and veggies, which were obviously not the reason for him ordering the dish. But he never complained, always happy as long as you were.

That was something you’d always appreciated about Matt. He was selfless, always willing to sacrifice anything for you, to put himself in difficult positions for you. But you always felt like you couldn’t give him the same, your heart being pulled in the opposite direction for a guy who clearly had moved on from you like it was nothing.

You hated that you’d hurt Matt, of course losing your baby wasn’t anything you’d ever done intentionally. But to know he still felt as though it was never him in your heart, that you were solely with him for your daughter and not because you liked him enough on his own, it hurt. Because maybe you were both wrong, maybe somehow things could have worked. Had your relationship not began the way it did, if you had simply walked away once you knew Mat had cheated. Maybe you two could've had a happy ending, rather than him moving out with you both left to pick up the pieces separately.

“Y/n!”

Snapping from your thoughts you looked up at Matt, his hand holding out two fortune cookies.

“You pick first, remember?”

It was always tradition for you to pick your cookie first, Matt’s rules. He said that your intuition was better than his, and most of the time your fortunes did suit each of you perfectly.

Taking the cookie on the right you playfully smiled, the two of you ripping open the packages as you each cracked open the cookies. Pulling out the small piece of paper, you read your fortune to yourself, biting your lip as you looked at Matt, seeing him already looking back at you in anticipation. He could see the tears welling in your eyes, immediately moving to your side to comfort you. His arms holding you tight as you cried, trying to pull yourself together as this wasn’t supposed to be a night for the two of you to be sad.

“What did it say?”

You took a deep breath as you sat up, wiping your tears as you read the message out loud.

“If you want the rainbow, you have to tolerate the rain.”

You softly chuckled, now realizing it seemed silly to cry over such a cliche message. But as you looked up at Matt he was fighting his own tears, sniffling as he tried to pull himself together.

“I think that was exactly what you needed to hear right now. Like I’ve always said, your intuition is a hell of a lot better than mine.”

He gave you a smile as he stood up, collecting the dishes and taking them into the sink as he began to clean them off. You then tossed the throw pillows back onto your couch before joining him. Taking a seat on the counter as you watched him dry the dishes before placing them back in the cabinet.

“Well what about you?”

He tossed the dish towel over his shoulder as he turned to look at you, crossing his arms as he leaned against the counter.

“What about me?”

“Your fortune!”

“Ohhh, let’s see, where did I put it?”

Typical Matt. He’d always put his fortune on the table, or in his pocket, the most random places thinking he’d lost it only to find it twenty minutes later.

“Here it is!”

Stuck to the bottom of his sock, that was a new one.

He playfully cleared his throat as he read from the tiny paper.

“A lifetime of happiness is in front of you.”

His eyes flashed up to meet yours, the words ringing in your ears and making your heart skip a beat. Though surely Matt didn’t see it that way, probably interpreting the fortune to be an overall meaning of the future, not literally right in front of him.

He simply shrugged as he placed the dish towel back onto the counter, “guess I’m gonna have to wait for happiness I guess. Unless, right in front of me.”

Looking down he stared at the sink, then flashed his eyes to you.

“This, washing dishes. It’s my future. Is this a sign that camp isn’t gonna go well for me?”

You rolled your eyes, practically falling off the counter at his god awful joke. Searching the apartment for your phone as he continued on, trying his best to make you laugh, which you always appreciated.

Looking at the screen you saw a multitude of text messages, all from none other than Mat. You’d immediately set your phone down, rejoining Matthew in the kitchen as you had no desire to talk to Barzal. It had been a month since you saw him, and you were not in the business of being friends only when it was convenient for him.

“Well, this has really been great, for the both of us I think. But, I gotta grab my stuff and head out. I’ve got an early training session tomorrow.”

Playfully you frowned at him as he headed to your previously shared bedroom, pulling a few things from the closet as he tossed them into a duffle bag he’d brought. Then he moved to the bathroom, and finally ended up in the living room grabbing a few books from the shelf.

“If you ever wanted to come over, not just when you need to grab some of your stuff, you can do that too you know?”

Matt softly smiled at you, appreciating the fact that you were open to still hanging out with him despite everything that happened. He felt awful for the way he left things, for accusing you of not necessarily having feelings for him or ever seeing yourself with him. It was pretty harsh when he thought back on it. And he wished things could’ve played out differently. But to even get an open invite from you to spend time together after the things he’d said, he felt that was a step in the right direction.

“I know that now, and I will definitely keep that in mind.”

He wrapped you in a hug before heading out the door, out of habit kissing your head before awkwardly apologizing. To which you’d told him you didn’t mind, it still felt so normal for him to do so. He promised to text you once he got home, but told you not to wait up as he might hit traffic on his drive and you need your rest for work in the morning. He truly did know you way too well.

Heading back into the living room you heard your phone buzzing on the coffee table. A photo of you and Mat Barzal filling the screen, one you’d apparently never changed after your breakup.

“Hello?”

“Hey, um, is everything okay?”

You scoffed at his somewhat annoyed tone as you took a seat on the couch, pulling a throw blanket over your legs as you spat back at him.

“Like you care? It’s been a month since I saw you and this is the first I’ve heard from you. What about the five other days I’ve tried reaching out? You didn’t care until now?”

He sighed on his end of the call, realizing he’d come off wrong, trying to apologize and start over as he explained himself.

“Well, you’re right. I should’ve responded sooner. But, Ava was in town, I couldn’t have her seeing me talking to you. But, I mean I texted you back now. You’re the one ignoring me now.”

He playfully chuckled, though you were not amused, Mat always thinking he could use charm to move past any wrongdoing.

“First of all, what good does texting me now do if I reached out weeks ago? Maybe I needed you then. And second of all, I wasn’t ignoring you. I was busy. Matt came over to grab some of his things and he brought dinner.”

Mat’s line of the phone went silent, eventually you’d heard him take a deep breath before he spoke.

“So, the guy packs up his things and walks out on you, but suddenly you’re hanging out and having dinner together? Are you two broken up or not?”

His tone was annoyed and angry, though you weren’t sure why considering he was happily engaged, which you didn’t think you needed to remind him of but clearly he’d forgotten.

“Last time I checked, you’re happy with Ava. So why do you care so much? I’m not allowed to have dinner with him? He and I were literally going to have a child, you think that everything between him and I just goes away overnight because I’m no longer pregnant?”

You found yourself laughing, the conversation seeming silly to you. There was no need for you to explain yourself to him, but part of you felt like you owed him something. After all, you did the same thing right back to him that he’d done to you.

“There was never anything between you two! Stop trying to pretend like there was. I get it okay, I fucked up. I should have never cheated on you. Do I think it gave you the right to do the same to me, no. But I could see how I pushed you into the arms of someone else. What I won’t let you do, is try to tell me that even for a second there was something between you and him. He got you pregnant after one night, and you two had to be together for your baby. That’s not love, that’s nothing close to what we had. So don’t you dare try to say it’s anything similar.”

You tried not to take his words personally, knowing they were coming from a place of hurt as he’d clearly not gotten over everything that happened. Rather just tried to mask it all by jumping into an engagement he clearly wasn’t satisfied with. But you weren’t going to just accept the things he said, letting him act as if there were never any feelings felt between you and Matthew.

“Mat, you have never once been in the same room as us. You’ve not been around Matt and I, you don’t know the feelings that are there. You don’t know how we feel towards one another, so you can’t tell me how I feel or how I don’t.”

“How you feel? So what, you still supposedly like this guy? After he packed his shit and walked out on you during one of the hardest moments of your life, you still have fucking feelings for someone like that? You’d want to be with the guy after all this?”

“Well I stayed with you during your shitty moments didn’t I?”

The comment was harsh, but you didn’t care. Mat always thought he could do no wrong, that the way he spoke was justified, and you were sick of him trying to make you feel bad, regardless if you’d hurt him or not.

“Why do you fucking care so much Mat? Must I remind you, you’re engaged! You chose her! So why could you possibly care so much if I still have feelings for Matt or would consider trying to do things the right way with him?”

The line went silent, and it felt as if minutes had passed before Mat finally confessed to you why’d he become so frustrated with you admitting you might truly have feelings for Rempe after all.

“Because I called off my engagement.”

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alittlebitofloveliness · 6 months

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Stevepop social media au is actually such a cool idea, I crave to hear more of your thoughts on it

Hi anon! This is for you, @battleslippers and @raindrvq who all wanted more stevepop social media au. I will warn you, I got a little carried away.

Stevepop Social Media Au:

-The TikTok thing wasn’t supposed to be a success, Soda honestly just started it for fun but he gains a following pretty quick. Part of its his pretty face and part of it’s his demeanour- he is magnetic after all

-Most of his videos are either him doing stupid internet challenges and failing miserably or kind of just rambling into the camera like its some sort of video diary

-The first video that went sort of viral was just him trying and failing to twerk. The footage itself is kind of shaky because whoever is filming is laughing so hard.

-Despite how much he loves internet challenges he refuses to try any that involve a lot of waste. To him the idea of wasting a bunch of food or anything really is absurd

-The gang ends up in a lot of his videos, either just in glimpses when he’s walking around filming himself, or in the background when he’s trying challenges or whatever. Like, TikTok is fun for him but everyone else just kind of leaves him to it, so sometimes Ponyboy, Johnny, and Dal will be in the background playing poker or video games, or Darry will come home from work, or you’ll see Two-bit smoking a cigarette and his audience is so intrigued by them because it makes Soda seem so human.

-A lot of his content involves him pranking Darry simply because of how confused Darry gets before he figures out what’s going on

-In the background of almost every video you can hear someone laughing at him or sometimes heckling. It distracts Soda every time and his face visibly lights up when he turns away from the camera and argues back

-His comment section speculates so hard about who the voice is. Some people think its Two-bit or Dallas until someone else points out that they’re visible in the background of some videos and the voice is still present when they're not talking, and thus clearly not coming from either of them. The speculation gets to the point that his whole comment section is just people wondering about who the voice belongs to

-Soda eventually adresses it with one offhand sentence: “oh that’s just Stevie, he doesn’t like TikTok”

-The comments section goes wild. Now they have a name to go with the offscreen voice, but they still don’t have a face.

-It kind of gets to the point where his following is more invested in analysing every instance of hearing Steve and trying to catch a glimpse of him than they are in Soda’s actual content

-Of course, the close analysis leads to people noticing just how…flirty some of Steve and Soda’s banter is and the fanbase is suddenly split. Some people think Soda can’t possibly be gay and the others are highly convinced Soda and Steve are a couple and Soda’s just trying to keep their relationship on the down low

-Of course, the many many nicknames and the way Soda’s eyes light up whenever he looks off camera really don’t help speculation

-…There’s also the video where Ponyboy and Johnny came in when he was filming by himself and Ponyboy started rubbing his eyes and going “holy shit, is that…Soda without Steve? Are my eyes deceiving me?” “Shut up Pony, don’t joke about that, clearly he’s grieving the loss of his other half- since death is the only thing that could separate those codependent idiots for more than five minutes.” “SHUT UP you two I’m trying to film a video” “of what, you sucking ass at dancing?” “GO AWAY!”

-…and then there’s the video where Soda’s doing some sort of workout routine and ends up shirtless and Steve’s voice gets about an octave deeper even when he teases Soda seemingly like normal

-The comments section LOSES it at that one.

-Ponyboy and Johnny make their own TikTok account and they use it solely to make fun of Soda’s (and by extension Steve). Actual dialogue from one of their videos has Pony in a shitty blond wig going “internet people stop saying me and my buddy Steve are together. It’s super normal to make out with your guy best friend, we’re just guys being dudes”. Another has Johnny (wearing a name tag with Steve written on it) watching Ponyboy do jumping jacks and saying “if you’re not ogling your best friend while he works out, what are you doing? Pretending you’re not turned on? Get real”

-Ponyboy and Johnny’s channel is only live for a week before its mysteriously deleted. They’re also both sporting a few bruises when they’re spotted in the background of Soda’s latest video

-Unfortunately, Pony and Johnny’s account caused the speculation to get even worse. No matter what Soda posts, the comments section is just speculation about him and Steve.

-Surprisingly, it’s Steve who gets fed up one day when Soda is doing a TikTok live and getting visibly annoyed at all the comments and speculation. He steps into frame, kisses Soda soundly on the mouth and turns to the camera. “Hey. I’m Steve. I hate TikTok, I’m Soda’s best friend, and as of last week, his boyfriend. Now respectfully, shut the fuck up talking about me.”

-The comment section loses it’s shit but eventually goes back to simply commenting on Soda’s content once it becomes clear Steve isn’t going to make another appearance and Soda isn’t going to talk about it.

-The end :)

#the outsiders #sodapop curtis #steve randle #stevepop #ponyboy curtis #darry curtis #johnny cade #two bit mathews #headcanon #dally winston #lovelythoughts

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mandowifey · 1 year

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I am sooo intrigued as how Miguel became intrigued with his darling— how his love for her developed, forged and plowing into the dark pit of obsession. I’d like to think it’s got something to do with his trauma that he forgot how to express his affections in the correct manner of way, but yet, there will be times he can be a doting husband and a father after all.

You're pretty close!

Warnings: Talk of Dark!Miguel, implications of noncon/being forced in a relationship, mentions of child loss. General dark themes but nothing Explicit.

This is touched on a little in my upcoming fic, Dominion and I intend on gradually exploring more of the "why" with Miguel soon.

This version (I say MY because I use personal Headcannons, etc) and dark!Miguel was traumatized by his canon event and the second loss of his child. When you watch the movie he expresses "I gave up too much to stop now," and you see him obsessing over footage with his daughter. He is in pain, constantly, and shoulders the burden of his greed.

This Miguel I write for has snapped. He has realized he should be allowed some sort of happiness and decides he is going to take it for himself. This is no different than his willingness to step into the shoes of a different version of himself and pretend. Miguel isn't right. He is self-serving and selfish. He learned that going and playing house in another universe wont work, so now he's going to try it in his own.

Finding you had been a chance, which turned into an obsession. Due to his sense of entitlement, he decided he is owed YOU. He wants happiness, he craves fatherhood and being loved. Miguel is depressed, loveless and broken. Finding you and taking you is justified by him as "I am Spider-man and protecting millions of universes, I deserve this chance."

Its warped logic, as kidnapping and holding you hostage isn't the heroes way, but he doesn't care. Just like how he could justify climbing into another Miguel's shoes, he can justify forcing someone to love him and rear him children. He doesn't see it as evil, or wrong, but as something he deserves for what he provides to the multi-verse.

I hope that kind of explains! ❤️ I'll touch more on it as I go through these fics and story lines.

#miguel o'hara headcanons #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara #across the spiderverse #spiderman 2099 #spiderman across the spiderverse #oscar isaac #miguel o'hara fanfiction

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anxiousdreamcore · 1 year

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Hi would you like to draw Spider as street kid in modern au? I really like your Billy Batson art + the way you draw Spider so I think this combination would be so perfect 😅 I totally understand if not, anyway have a nice day/night!

BOY DO I HAVE NEWS FOR YOU—

Ever since @naavispider responded to a prompt about street kid Spider meeting Quaritch, I was very interested in the idea so I def wanna draw that but for now, let me present you with some thing I came up with.

Street kid Spider modern AU

Imagine Miles Spider Socorro in the modern AU, escaping from the foster system bc he was treated very poorly and decided to gamble with the homeless life instead. He lives like that for maybe three-four years when Miles tracks him down. Because the boy is so good at parkour, he’s been given the street nickname of Spider, which the blonde is proud of and uses as his real name.

Spider lives in the attic of an abandoned mall that is so overgrown with unkept plants and trees that it’s more of a jungle. He takes care of many cats who made themselves at home there and as a result of being around them 24/7 develops some of their mannerisms, like head movements when curious, crouching and hissing when agitated. He doesn’t get much proper human contact until meeting the Sullies.

The Sully kids have moved in not long ago and crave adventure. The overgrown mall looks like a magical forest to them and in it they find Spider, a creature of the woods with his long, curly, matted hair, ripped and stitched together over a thousand times clothes, trinkets worn on his neck like necklaces, and the many cats surrounding him. Spider smells like soil and cat food and is initially scared of the four children (four bc you’d never catch Neteyam exploring abandoned buildings, he’s a good boy), ready to fight them like he fought every other street-dweller ever since ending up outside of care. Out here, the kids mostly end up either as addicts or in gangs, so Spider had no friends his age…until that fateful day.

From that point on, Spider becomes their secret friend and the siblings visit him every day. They love his bravery and sass, underneath which lies a compassionate heart of gold. They not only buy him necessities, but even help him shoplift on some days, not only for himself but for the street animals as well, plus old homeless people who huddle around makeshift fires on cold nights. They become sort of robins in their own right, and Jake, together with Neytiri, although suspect something, don’t know about the secret bestie their kids made.

Neteyam suspect much more and slowly puts the puzzle together. He is not thrilled.

All is well, life is looking up…until Kiri tells Spider one day, as they hang out in the roof, that she heard in the news of a certain “Miles Quaritch” getting out of prison, advising that the boy stays safe.

She stills when she sees the sheer look of horror on his face.

“Spider..?..”

“I…”

“…You know him?”

“Promise me you won’t freak out.”

“I-I won’t, I won’t.”

“…

I’m, like…his son.”

From that point on the drama quickly ramps up because Spider’s social cervices agent Norm has also tracked the kid down to this city, operating on rumours and rare camera footage of the boy. It doesn’t make the situation easier that Norm is also friends with Jake and keeps venting to him about how miserable and hurt Spider must be while the Sully kids are right there knowing where he hides.

And that’s pretty much the gist of this AU. For Spider, it’s a tense situation where he has to be sneakier than ever bc cps are close on his track and his father is even closer and he wants his son back. On both fronts, Socorro is threatened with a total loss of freedom and autonomy. The kids have to be sneaky too when they visit him…but no one can be sneaky enough to pass under Quaritch’s nose.

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senseofnewness · 30 days

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Sorry this thought is long but…

I read one fic one time and saw some asks, and now I’m obsessed with the idea of physical therapist or personal trainer reader x artashi. Like maybe they knew her at Stanford and she was already part of the dynamic or maybe they met her later. Idc I just need this dynamic between them where Art and Tashi are the married couple but reader has supported both of them so much in tennis and their personal life that it’s like she’s part of their marriage too.

Like she literally nurses Art back to health after his injury, so she’s super protective of him and constantly checking in on his health and physical needs, very touchy, but it’s nice because Art craves that physical connection. They communicate a lot through touch. Imagine casual arm rubs and hand holding or gently squeezing Art’s thigh when he looks stressed or detached before a match.

If he’s sitting on the couch, she might casually walk over and start massaging his shoulder without even thinking about it. He instantly melts into her touch, and sometimes, if he’s feeling particularly comfortable, he might let out a small whimper or moan, letting his head fall back. She tries to ignore how his Adam’s apple protrudes from the way his head is tilted back (and her desire to lick the skin there) and how his thighs are spread out on the couch. Her hands may start to rub up the sides of his neck, massaging away the tension there and behind his ears. Art brings his hand up to rest against her forearm, making direct eye contact from below. She’s so in tune with his body that she knows he’s getting turned on, can feel it in his pulse. She doesn’t even need to look at the bulge growing under his pajama pants. It definitely wouldn’t be the first time she’s relieved him in that way, but she worries now might not be the best time with Tashi already stressed about Art’s performance and the awkward tension that’s been developing between them.

Without warning, Tashi shuts her laptop and walks over. With a loud sigh, she snakes her arm around reader’s waist. She looks down at Art and lets out a ‘tsk’ at the way he’s sprawled on the couch like a needy whore. She then makes eye contact with reader, pulling her in for a kiss. She greedily returns it, always taking the opportunity to indulge in whatever Tashi offers her. She gasps when the hand that was previously on her hip is pressed against her ass, gently squeezing it. Tashi leans in and nibbles her earlobe before telling her “just fuck him already.”

Before she knows it, Tashi has disappeared to finish her work somewhere quietly (and without the distraction of her horny lovers). She’s too busy to entertain them at the moment, but you better believe she’ll end up using the reader’s mouth to get off before bed that night.

Art Donaldson x Tashi Duncan x f!reader - MDNI - 18+

Tashi can hear the two of you going at it from the next room, the walls doing little to muffle the sounds of Art’s whimpers under your touch. She could be jealous that you’re fucking her husband, but she’s not. Instead, what stings is the fact that he’s getting all your attention while she’s not. She’s supposed to be studying Art’s opponent’s game, analyzing every move to craft the perfect strategy to beat him on the court. But with each passing minute, the noises filtering through the walls make it harder for her to focus.

She tries to immerse herself in the game footage, to concentrate on the opponent’s flaws and strengths, but it’s impossible when all she can think about is what’s happening in the next room. The way you’re making Art squirm, the sounds he’s making, it’s driving her crazy. The dampness growing between her legs and the hardening of her nipples under her shirt only make it worse. She almost wants to storm in and tell you both to shut up, but deep down, she knows she’d rather just join you.

When she steps into the bedroom, both of you turn to look at her, and a smile spreads across your face. You’re sprawled out on the bed with Art between your legs, his hips moving in a steady rhythm, your foreheads touching in a moment of closeness. Every time Tashi catches you two together, she expects to see something wild from the noises you’re making. But instead, she always finds the two of you desperately grinding against each other, rutting like animals in heat, lost in the moment. She knows she’s the missing piece, the one who can take things to another level. With her there, you can finally let go of any guilt, knowing that nothing is truly done behind her back, because she’s always the one who gives the final word. “Tashi…” You moan, reaching out one hand toward her while your other hand clutches Art’s soft locks. She grabs your hand and steps closer to the bed, her eyes fixed on the scene before her, on you, sprawled out and gasping as her husband drives into you with deep, steady thrusts. Her gaze lingers on Art’s ass, the way his muscles twitch when he’s buried deep inside you, feeling you clench around him. You know how much she loves watching, and you can see the way it drives her wild too. But right now, you crave more than just her eyes on you, you want her to join in. Things are always more intense, more electrifying, when you’re the center of attention for both of them. Art's lips crash against yours, kissing you with a hungry desperation as you lock eyes with Tashi, silently urging her to come closer. Whenever she steps into the room while he's fucking you, Art gets even more intense, his hands all over you, determined to show his wife how well he’s taking care of you.

As Tashi drops her shorts, letting them pool around her ankles before kicking them off, your eyes linger on her long, toned legs. You have spent countless hours massaging them, easing the pain of her injury, restoring strength to muscles she despised for their weakness. To her, they were a frustrating reminder of what she’d lost, but to you, they were one of your favorite parts of her body. You groan as Art pounds harder into you, a clear attempt to reclaim your attention. Even with his tongue down your throat, he knows that your gaze has wandered to his wife. You close your eyes, trying to refocus on him, running your free hand down his back and gripping his ass with a firm squeeze, a silent reassurance that there’s no reason for him to be jealous. You adore him just as much. The sight of him and his sculpted stomach also makes your legs tremble every time. But they just both offer you something different. Your soul craves Art while your body craves Tashi.

Before you know it, Tashi has released your hand and is crawling onto the bed, now completely nude. Her presence sends a wave of excitement through you both. She watches as you and Art devour each other's mouths in a mess of gasps and moans, her eyes gleaming with desire. Her hand glides over Art’s back, and you can tell by the way he arches into her touch that he’s seeking her attention. “Am I interrupting?” She asks, a hint of mischief in her voice. You and Art nod eagerly, always ready to play along with her teasing. “Good.” She says with a smirk, her hand sliding up to grip his hair and pull him away from your lips, breaking the heated kiss. “Get off her face, Donaldson.” Art reluctantly pulls back, his eyes desperate as he looks at his wife, then obediently shifts his position. The weight of his body lifts off yours, and he’s now kneeling behind you, his hands gripping your hips to raise them. Tashi hands him a pillow, which he carefully places beneath you, making sure you're comfortable before thrusting again, holding your legs close to his chest.

Tashi straddles your face, facing Art, hovering just inches above your mouth. All you can think about is burying your face between her legs, desperate to inhale her core. You whine, impatience bubbling up inside you, aching for the prize she’s teasing you with. Art watches intently, like it's the hottest thing he’s ever seen. Finally, she lowers herself onto your mouth, silencing your needy whimper. She grinds her hips back, spreading her slickness over your nose and lips. Without hesitation, you grab her thighs, holding her down as your tongue eagerly explores her folds. Leaning forward, she pulls Art into a heated kiss, prompting him to give you long, slow strokes. You wish you could watch them make out. There was something intensely erotic about the way Tashi devoured his mouth, like she wanted to consume him whole, while Art melted into her touch, desperate to be enveloped by her. But you didn’t complain, you loved the position you were in, Tashi’s ass in your face, her scent intoxicating as you eagerly licked and sucked at her. “Is she eating you good?” He whispers against her lips. “She’s being lazy.” She replies, pushing you to dive deeper, to please her even more.

You flick your tongue against her clit, dipping your nose between her labia, inhaling her deeply. Her scent makes you lightheaded, but Art’s deep, rhythmic thrusts brings you back to your senses. Tashi grabs one of Art’s hands from your thigh and guides it to your breast while she fondles the other. When they combined their efforts, torturing you instead of competing for your attention, you knew you were completely at their mercy. It wasn’t about you anymore. It was about them two. Control slips from your grasp as you clench your cunt around Art’s thick, pulsing cock, urging him to fuck you like you are nothing but a desperate hole, hoping Tashi would suffocate you with her pussy while your tongue burns with the sweet agony of overuse. “Yes, that’s better, good girl.” Tashi moans, her voice laced with satisfaction as she continues to knead your breast. Their touches couldn’t be more different. Art’s hand is gentle and soft, rolling your breast gently under his palm, while Tashi’s grip is eager, her fingers digging into your flesh with possessiveness. You tentatively slide your hands up her chest, hoping to return the favor and give her breasts the same attention, but she quickly slaps your hands away, a silent reprimand that makes your heart beat faster. You knew you would pay for it later on. Obediently, you place them back around her thighs, pulling her closer to your face, desperate to please her.

“Shit, I’m coming.” Art blurts out, his voice tight with pleasure as he rams into you with a desperate intensity, his eyes squeezed shut in bliss. “Already?” Tashi comments, her tone almost mocking him. It’s true that he could never last as long as Tashi could. He never did. But you both had been going at it long before Tashi even entered the room. The burn in your thighs and the slick pool of your juices beneath you were proof enough of that. “Come on, you can do better than that.” Tashi challenges, her eyes locked on her husband. Art gasps, nodding in response, determined not to disappoint her. After all, it was thanks to Tashi that he even had the privilege of fucking your sweet pussy. “Fuck her good.” She commands, her voice firm, as she starts to grind her hips in time with his thrusts, creating a rhythm that sends waves of pleasure coursing through your body.

After a couple more minutes of gasping for air beneath Tashi and feeling your kidneys being crushed by Art’s thrusts, you were nearing your limit. The overstimulation was so intense that you felt on the verge of passing out. As always, the unspoken connection you shared with Art allowed him to sense your desperation with just a glance. “Now?” He pleads, his hand sliding down to your lower abdomen, pressing to feel himself deep inside you. “Nuh uh, I’m not done yet.” Tashi gasps, her eyes closed as she focuses on the sensation of your tongue sloppily worshiping her. A few more seconds pass before she arches her back, reaching for Art’s hand on your stomach, and lacing her fingers with his. “Now!” She groans, her thighs tightening their grip on your head as she squeezes your tongue with all her might, causing you to clench tightly around Art. In that moment, you hear Art whine as his release hits, and you feel the warmth of his load spilling into you, sending you both over the edge. Tashi’s orgasm was always the cue for you two to finally let go. It was always her first. The wave of pleasure was so overwhelming that you questioned if a double orgasm could truly exist, but you were convinced that was what you had just experienced. Perhaps it was the lack of oxygen to your brain, but you were certain that, for a brief moment, your soul had left your body.

When she finally lifts off your face and allows you to catch your breath, you’re met with the sight of both of them watching you, matching devilish smiles on their faces. It used to be a professional relationship. All you had to do was ease the pain in their bodies but now you relieved them in ways that surpassed your line of duty. While their bodies were in peak condition, thanks to you, they were the cause of your sweetest aches.

But as you lie there, breathless and thoroughly spent, you can’t help but think that things could be much worse than being the Donaldsons' little plaything.

(i'm actually writing a tashi x physiotherapist!reader fic but i might start to think about writing more throuple content)

#challengers 2024 #challengers fanfic #tashi duncan #art donaldson #challengers #challengers smut #challengers fic #challengers fiction #challengers fanfiction #damn thank you for blessing my inbox with that masterpiece

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celestial-toys · 16 days

Text

Observation Duty

“You said your eyes are everywhere, huh?”

Your question is met with silence.

Now, if you had been looking down at him instead of facing the ceiling, you’d have caught the brief image of your living room security cam footage as it flashed across the screen of his faceplate. You’d have seen the moment you tripped playing on a sped up loop over and over, your knee hitting the table’s corner, your body hitting the floor, laundry falling and dog food scattering just to rise back up unnaturally as the footage plays again in reverse.

You weren’t looking down though, you weren’t looking anywhere at all- and so you missed it completely, thinking nothing of his silence and continuing to talk to the ceiling.

“So… what, you just enjoy watching me do chores?”

- - -

Seeking distraction from the work weighing on your mind, you start a little play-argument with the tetchy automaton currently hogging your couch. It soon evolves into a verbal dance, skirting around some heavier topics that threaten to trip up the both of you as your conversation moves too quickly for this listless afternoon.

As usual, he takes all of your antics in stride. Well… mostly. Kinda.

Look- he’s trying, okay?

Pairing: Sun x Moon x Reader - GN!Reader

Word Count: 4,934

Contains: [AU - Real World] [argument] [feelings] [implied past trauma] [intimidation] [lack of communication] [minor injuries] [obsessive behavior] [sentient AI] [size difference] [surveillance] [tension] [touching (not sexual but the consent is still dubious)] [tsundere/yandere Sun] [unsettling]

A/Ns: Once again, the above CW's probably make it sound worse than it is, but I like to err on the side of caution.

This fic is part of my AU "[Not] Made by Design", the full series can be found here.

The light of the screen in front of you burns into your tired eyes. Your focus is waning, your mind preferring to wander instead to how badly you’re craving an afternoon coffee. Sighing, you push yourself away from your desk, leaning back into the chair as its wheels roll with the momentum. Bumping into the wall behind you with a soft thud, you slump in your seat, staring with unfocused eyes at nothing in particular.

A few deep breaths and a short-lived moment of empty-headed bliss later, you remove your glasses and rub your eyes with the knuckles of your curled fingers. Digging your heels into the floor and dragging your chair forward again, you place your glasses on the desk, and note the time. You’ve been in the office for several hours at this point, and if you stay much longer you’re willing to bet a certain Sun-themed bot will be beating down your door demanding that you take a break. So, after double-checking that your work is saved, you put your PC to sleep. Standing and reaching for the ceiling as you stretch, you grimace at the cracks from your back and shoulders.

Making your way out of the room and down the hall, you round a corner, entering the living room. The blackout shades are down, all lights off save for the soft yellow glow coming from a small lamp in the corner. The bright afternoon sun is peeking its way through the edges of the windows that the shades don’t quite cover.

Moon would likely complain about how “dark and sad” it looks if he were in here, but you don’t see him. You figure he might be in the kitchen, or outside charging, maybe. Regardless, if he isn’t here to bother Sun about his “depressing” lighting choices, you will in his stead.

The robot has situated himself across the length of your couch, which is quite a feat considering the thing is honestly just a glorified loveseat and even you can’t lay on it comfortably. For being as large as they are, their flexibility makes up for it, allowing Sun and Moon to be genuinely impressive in their ability to fit into relatively small spaces. You try not to mentally pat yourself on the back for the role you played in that ability.

This isn’t about you anymore.

The soft white glow coming from his screen is enough to illuminate the pages of the book in his hands, and from what you can see of it you think you recognize the cover as being the one you were telling them both about last night as you were falling asleep.

…Cute.

You smile, leaning against the wall as you speak up.

“Y’know, my parents used to always nag me about my bad habit of reading in the dark. It seems I’ve somehow passed that trait along to you.”

Sun hums, tone soft and dismissive, and doesn’t pull his gaze away from the book when he speaks.

“It’s not dark, the lamp’s on.”

One black silicone fingertip lifts the corner of the right page, gently pulling it across and splaying his hand out to flatten the book down again. You note how the width of his fingers span beyond both edges of the book. It almost looks too small in his hands, but then again… most things do.

“Besides, I can see just fine in the dark. The lamp is for you.”

Well, he’s not wrong.

There’s humor in your voice, speaking as you push up off the wall and make your way across the room towards him. “Yes, and I do appreciate you leaving me enough light to get around by.”

You cautiously perch behind him on the right arm of the couch, careful not to get your loose clothes caught on any of his protruding rays. You’re aware that in his eyes, you’re clumsy enough even with the lights on, let alone trying to navigate in the almost-dark. Given that, you aren’t sure if it’s truly his disdain for bright lights, or simply his desire to see you struggle that drives him to keep the areas he occupies dimly lit.

Looking down at the coffee table, a recent memory surfaces and you frown.

“Speaking of navigating in the dark… my knee still hurts from slamming it into the corner of the coffee table last week, you know?”

From your position behind him you can’t see how his display shifts from its soft, blank white, his digital approximation of facial features materializing only to shift into a grimace. You do hear the shift in his tone of voice, although you can’t quite name what it is. Exasperation? Or… concern?

“I know. I’m surprised it didn’t bruise.”

“Well, you know me, I have to take quite a hard hit for my skin to really show it.” You think for a moment, and add onto the statement, muttering mostly to yourself but his hearing catches it all the same. “Which has always been odd to me considering how easily my skin scars…”

He hums a little bit in acknowledgment, trying not to think too hard about your various scars and how you got them. “Well, from the sound you made when it happened I thought you’d really injured yourself.”

Your voice takes on a playful tone of offense. “I am injured! It hurt!” You reach down and gently press over the spot that hurts the most, unable to resist the urge to poke the non-existent bruise through the plush fabric of your lounge pants. You murmur to yourself as much as to Sun, “...and it’s still sore...”

His body releases air in semblance of a sigh, lowering the book to his lap. Still looking down at it while he speaks, his tone is a mixture of teasing and I-told-you-so. “While it may have been semi-dark in here when it happened- I’m not taking the blame for it. Things like that just happen when you run around doing three things at once.”

A small surprised laugh escapes you. “How do you know what I was doing, huh?” You reach out and carefully run a fingertip along the edge of his top ray. “You weren’t even in the room, silly.”

His rays twitch slightly but he doesn’t retract them much as his faceplate slowly tilts back, stopping at an impossible angle for any human and finally making eye contact with you, albeit upside-down. “My eyes are everywhere, doll.”

His tone is something you’d call playfully threatening and you hold his steady gaze for a long moment before eventually blinking and glancing away, conceding to a contest you could never win.

It’s cute when he tries to be scary.

A half-smile on your face, you dismiss his attempt to unsettle you. Halloween is next month. “Mhm. I’m sure they are.”

From your peripheral vision you watch his expression falter, his yellow eyes flickering to red just briefly before he speaks. “You were carrying a bowl filled with dog food in your left hand, fresh laundry from the dryer was hanging off both of your shoulders, and you were wiping down the coffee table with your favorite brown towel in your right hand. All at once. While cursing.”

You throw a confused look at him that he ignores in favor of continuing to reprimand your past actions. “You’re incapable of doing one thing at a time, aren’t you? Truly reckless behavior, you know. That’s how people get hurt.”

You let out a put-upon sigh. He’s not wrong, but you don’t want to admit it yet.

Time for a diversion, then.

“Hey, I can multitask! I built both of you at the same time and it turned out alright, didn’t it?”

For a moment, the room is absolutely silent as you both process what you just let slip. You’re about to rush to correct yourself when Sun beats you to it, speaking up.

He laughs at first, soft and a little dismissive.

“Not quite the same thing, sunshine.”

Alright, well… it seems he’s less bothered by the reminder than you thought he’d be. That, or he’s getting better at hiding his true feelings, which is a whole other issue you’ll have to tackle if that’s the case.

You cock your head to the side. Might as well play into it, then.

“No? How so?”

His eyes flicker to red, and this time they stay that way as his faceplate turns, click-click-clicking and stopping when it’s done a 180 so he can look at you properly.

Oh. He’s not smiling.

On second thought, maybe you shouldn’t push the topic.

“You designed us, doll. You didn’t build us, and you didn’t do it alone. You had a whole team behind you.”

Not breaking eye contact with you, Sun’s left hand that had been cradling the open book in his lap closes in an instant. A sudden, sharp clap resounds in the room as a result of the book folding closed so harshly in his grip. You internally grimace at the way it makes you flinch.

Your eyes flick from the book held tight in his grip, to his faceplate, watching his expression fade until his display is completely black. Any attempts at appearing somewhat humanoid thrown out the window, he releases a breath of hot air through his vents as you stare into the void of his screen. You know he’ll likely elaborate if you give him the space to do so, so you take a deep breath of your own, and wait.

It’s always somehow so much more unnerving to hear him speak when his “face” is gone, but you hang onto his every word regardless. You’re not gonna look away from something- someone you made.

“Besides, let’s not forget that even with a whole team of humans, you still managed to fuck up some… aspects… of the project.” Having dropped the comforting illusion of his false eyes, his faceplate tilts, a small, sudden, sharp movement so his ocular sensor can stare directly at you. “Didn’t you?”

Your stomach drops at the realization of what he’s referencing. At least… you think you know. Honestly, there’s an entire list of things that happened back in the facility that they have every right to resent you for.

You’re not sure what to say anymore. There really aren’t any magic words that can make it better. You hurt them. You all did. End of argument.

The realization must be obvious on your face, because his screen soon switches back to his default expression and he seems quite pleased with himself for about ten whole seconds. Then as quickly as it came, the expression he wears shifts into one of hesitation, frustration, and then finally- worry? Maybe? At this point it’s getting hard to tell what the hell he’s feeling, if you ever could.

“Sun… I… I don’t-”

You manage to hold his gaze as you stumble in search of the right words, watching his expression morph from one emotion to the next until his right hand moves, and your eyes immediately flick towards the motion. Your gaze drags up his arm as slowly, his shoulder joint rotates enough to allow him to reach all the way behind him- towards you- hand reaching out to gently cup your right cheek.

You don’t lean away. You won’t.

You dig your nails into the fabric of the couch. His thumb slips under the edge of your jaw as his fingers splay across the side of your head, and you can feel the slight pressure as his thumb lays against your carotid artery.

He doesn’t speak at all this time but from past experience, your mind easily fills in the words he usually says to you as he does this.

Deep breath in. Hold it. Let it out slowly.

You know what he’s doing, and you let him. It’s far from the first time he’s done it.

His mixed expression doesn’t change, his hand doesn’t move, and the silence drags on until you can’t take it anymore. Your voice shakes but you push past it to get the words out.

“I… I swear to god- Sun- like I’ve said before, if I’d’ve had any clue that you two were alive back then-”

You’re forced to squint as his entire screen suddenly flashes, solid white, red, black, repeating several times. His grip on your cheek tightens just slightly. A warning of sorts, if you had to guess. It shuts you up fast and he hisses out an irritated “Don’t.”

Confusion is written on your face and without thinking, you open your mouth to insist on your apology.

His thumb immediately slips under your chin, pressing your mouth closed with such a slow, gentle motion contradicting his current demeanor that it practically gives you whiplash. As soon as your mouth is closed his thumb slips right back to its prior position over your pounding pulse, and his display fades back down to solid black.

“Stop talking. It fucks up my readings when you speak.”

Your brow furrows in frustration at first, but you do what he asked, and what you’re good at. You sit there with him in the quiet and focus on your breathing as the sounds of his cooling system kick up a notch.

The seconds feel like they drag on for ages due to the way you focus on them, but in reality it’s only about three minutes later that he finally seems satisfied with the readings he took as he slowly retracts his hand from your head. The black void of his faceplate slowly lights up again, albeit he’s replaced his default expression with something more akin to a… dynamic wallpaper- yellow smoke billowing across a dark screen.

Whatever suits him, you suppose.

Folding his hands together over the book in his lap, he finally speaks, his tone low and unhappy but not angry, really.

“Your HRV is low and your RHR is high.”

Your response comes out sounding more dismissive than you mean for it to.

“Yeah, they usually are. Nothing new, unfortunately.”

Sun’s body tenses a bit and his rays retract slightly in response. He releases another hot breath through the vent at the base of his neck and you can feel the warmth on your thigh through the fabric of your pants. He speaks again, voice slightly strained.

“That’s my point. You need to relax, and talking about the past isn’t helping you do that right now. So just… drop it.”

You want to point out that he could stand to take his own advice, but you bite your tongue instead. He’s right, after all. You do need to relax. You both do, what with the two of you walking around ready to snap most of the time. In spite of that though, he’s doing his best to deescalate the situation and you ought to follow suit.

The lack of Moon’s calming presence is painfully obvious during times like these, but the two of you ought to be able to make it through one damn conversation without needing his assistance. You laugh a little to yourself, unamused but wearing half a smile nonetheless, shaking your head at the thought. As much as he’d hate to admit it, even Sun knows that the three of you work best when you’re all together, balancing each other out.

You sigh, and let yourself flop against the back of the couch, stretching your right arm out across the length of it. Sun’s invisible gaze follows you as his faceplate tilts on its axis and rotates to remain facing you. You note the way he’s letting his neck gently rest against your right thigh.

Leaning your own head back and closing your eyes in defeat, you speak towards the ceiling.

“Okay, fine, you’re right. I’ll drop it.”

You drum your fingertips along the fabric of the couch in thought, before adding, “...And… maybe... I was doing too much at once, when I hurt my knee on the coffee table last week.”

He lets out a little hum of agreement.

Still, if he thinks he’s fully won this silly little argument he’s got another thing coming. You’ve definitely still got a counterpoint. Counter… question? Whatever.

“You said your eyes are everywhere, huh?”

Your question is met with silence.

You weren’t looking down though, you weren’t looking anywhere at all- and so you missed it completely, thinking nothing of his silence and continuing to talk to the ceiling.

“So… what, you just enjoy watching me do chores?”

He chuckles in response, and the vibrations from the sound tickle your outer thigh, causing the muscles there to twitch involuntarily. You cringe at your body’s sensitivity, but Sun thankfully doesn’t react.

Begrudgingly, you open your eyes and crane your head back up, bringing your right hand up off the couch to lean on. You pull your left leg up towards yourself at the same time, heel propping up on the arm of the couch. Curling toward your right, you realize you’ve inadvertently wrapped your body around his head, which is all but resting in your lap at this point. His rays are mostly retracted by now and the display on his faceplate has shifted once again, yellow clouds still billowing across black but he’s allowed parts of his expression to return, pale white eyes emerging from the smoke.

His face is otherwise unreadable as he finally responds to you. “My priority is keeping you safe. How can I do that if I can’t see you?”

You can’t help but scoff a little at that. “Safe? You were- apparently- watching me, and still let me trip on one of Zero’s toys and slam my knee into the table.”

At that, his mouth returns and he frowns at your tone, and so do you, realizing that you came across a bit more accusatory than you meant to. A beat passes where you both just stare at each other, and his voice is a lot softer when he speaks again.

“Was I not by your side within seconds after the fall, checking you for injuries?”

He was, and you know it. He was on you inhumanly fast, cradling your head like you’d fallen off a ladder or something and not just tripped and fell to your hands and knees on plush carpet. He’s a worrier and you know it damn well, even if he’d rather be decommissioned than admit to it.

Unfortunately, you never learned how to let yourself accept help, nor how to stop being stubborn in a stupid argument that you started yourself. “...Yeah. I guess. But you still could have offered to help before I tripped.”

He rolls his eyes before they land back on you, fixing you with a look that’s unexpectedly soft. In stark contrast, his voice comes out strained. “I was trying not to hover, sunshine.”

Your eyes flick away from his, always unable to maintain the sustained contact once things got a little too serious.

He keeps talking regardless.

“I know you. You would have been like- ‘Oh, no, I’ve got it! Don’t even worry about it!’ and wouldn’t have let me help even if I did offer.”

You scoff before leveling him with an unamused stare. “Oh, I do not sound like that. Shut it.”

He’s wearing a neutral expression but you notice as it shifts slightly, a hint of satisfaction at having gotten under your skin beginning to make itself known. You watch the hint of emotion begin to alter his digital features, as well as his voice.

“Regardless. ‘No lesson is as powerful as the lesson learned on one’s own.’ Besides, I knew you’d be fine.”

You blink down at him for a moment as you process his statement, and fail to contain your exasperated huff of annoyance when you realize where you’ve heard some of those words before.

“Don’t quote Night Vale at me right now, Sun.”

If you hadn’t been watching him so closely, you’d have missed the way his eyes turned upwards a bit, seemingly pleased with himself.

You continue, in spite of his attempts to deflect your words.

“You didn’t sound so self assured when you were rushing over to me on the floor with those big red “eyes” of yours blown wide. You were all like- ‘Where does it hurt? Show me. Where. How bad? You didn’t hit your head, right? Forget about the dog food- look at me.’ and all that.”

His eyes shift from crescent moons to flat lines, and his voice returns to his typical deadpan tone.

“You do a terrible impression of me.”

You scoff.

“Like yours is better?”

He nods, his faceplate shifting up and down within the limited range of motion he’s allowed, given your current position.

“I can literally mimic your voice. Mine is objectively superior.”

Thoughts of The Mimic flash in your mind, and it takes all you’ve got to not crack some sort of half-baked joke about the Ruin DLC. The smile on your face does little to hide the temptation, though.

“Debatable.”

Sun doesn’t press you for more, seeming less than eager to hear whatever joke he’s sure you’ve got sitting on the tip of your tongue.

“It’s not up for debate. If you wanna debate with someone go find Moon.”

He sighs heavily, breathing out his next words in an impressive display of realism given that his speech and breathing functions aren’t connected at all.

“I've run out of conversation juice.”

He shifts to sit back up, faceplate rotating, returning his body to its original position facing away from you. You huff and uncurl yourself from your perch on the couch. Moving to stand, you make your way around to the other end where his long legs cause his feet to jut out comically far past the armrest. You reach down, gently grabbing him by the ankles and begin to maneuver his legs out of the way, muttering to yourself as you do so.

“Wish I was a robot so I could lie and say my system has run out of something I don’t even have in the first place…”

He puts up no resistance as you fold his legs away accordion style, watching you in what almost seems like thoughtful silence. Once you’ve made room for yourself, you perch once again on the other arm of the couch, your feet resting on the far left cushion and your left side leaning against the backrest. He finally speaks once it seems that you’re settled.

“Alright. How would you rather I put it?”

You quirk an eyebrow up, slightly surprised at the sincere tone of his question. Shaking your head, you're quick to convey that you were only joking.

“No, no I didn't say to change it. I like ‘conversation juice', I think it’s funny.”

He tilts his head a bit, slow and analyzing. Half a smile slowly curls across his face and both of his eyes take on a soft, pale yellow. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was tired. He's looking at you with such a gentle gaze. It's almost… sad, if you look closely enough.

“Funny? Hm. Well, I suppose I am nothing if not a clown.”

His attention drifts back down to his book, cracking it open and flipping through to return to the page he left off on in no particular hurry.

You know his deadpan tone likely isn’t meant to sound so self deprecating but your heart still hurts at the thought that he only sees himself as some sort of… novelty toy. A joke. A mechanical clown for you to play with when you’re bored. A comedic horror character brought to life.

He can only make so many jokes about himself before they start to sound less like jokes and more like a way for him to vent his insecurities. You understand that type of “humor” far too well to just sit back and watch him do it to himself.

You struggle to resist the urge to remind him that there is much, much more to him than being modeled after that character from that game. You consider reaching out and curling the tip of a finger under the bottom edge of his face plate. You think about gently tilting his face away from the book and back up at you. You want to look him in the eye while you tell him all of the things that you love about him, and how much he means to you, and that he is so much more than a clown.

But you know he handles comfort and praise just about as well as a cat handles falling into a bathtub, so… you resist the urge. For now.

Eventually, one day, likely far from now, you hope to get him used to the amount of love you have to give, and you’ll smother him with it like you want to. But if you lay it all on him like that right now, he would probably overheat and shut down. Both metaphorically and literally.

You really don’t want that to happen again. Scared the hell out of you last time. Even knowing that it’s a safety measure to ensure that he doesn’t sustain damage from overheating- it looks an awful lot like he’s dying when it happens and you’d like to not have to see it again.

So, you opt to keep things lighthearted. You smile as you reach out to pat him on the knee.

“And an excellent clown you are, dear.”

There’s more sugar in your tone than you intended to let out, but if he knew everything you really wanted to say, he’d realize that you’re actually being very reserved right now.

You’re being very normal about it all, you think, as you silently praise yourself.

When you finally get out of your thoughts and back into your body, you realize that you’re being eyed by the man on your couch in such a way that indicates he knows you were caught up in your head again. You spent too long in silence before you responded to him and now he’s likely aware that you were wanting to say something else.

A lot else, actually.

So, before he can potentially ask you what you’re thinking about, you attempt to change the topic. Laughing a bit to yourself, you stretch and shift to make your sudden and hopefully casual retreat from the couch and the awkward air you’ve clouded around it. Twisting around and planting your feet on the floor, there’s forced humor in your voice as you wonder aloud where his other half is.

“Speaking of clowns, what’s Moon been up to while I was working?”

Sun’s expression is unreadable as he spares you one last moment of his visual attention before angling his monitor back down toward the book. You know he’s perfectly capable of taking in visual information while outputting completely separate verbal communication, and can give both tasks his full attention simultaneously in the way no human truly could. Still, in spite of that knowledge, you doubt he’s really paying much attention to the words on the pages before him as he speaks to you right now.

“You know that sad, sad little plant that’s been fighting for its life on your kitchen windowsill for the last… thirty-seven days?”

You cringe a bit at the reminder of the succulent you impulse-purchased recently- well, a tad longer than recently if Sun’s count is accurate, which you know it is. You’ve been meaning to re-pot the poor thing and find a different place for it where it’ll receive better light, but… you’ve been meaning to do a lot of things.

“...Yeah…”

“Last I saw, he took it outside through the back door. He was muttering something about ‘saving’ it.”

Your eyebrows knit as your gaze casts across the floor.

“Saving it... okay.”

As far as you’re aware, you don’t have any potting soil on hand, so you struggle to feature what he’s out there doing with it.

It’s right around this time that you notice the silence of the house amidst your quiet consideration.

You raise another question.

“I assume Zero followed him out there?”

Sun’s true focus seems to be gradually shifting away from you and back into the book, if his display’s shift back to blank, soft white and his neutral-toned yet concise reply are anything to go off of.

“Mhm.”

You suck in a breath and pat your legs before easing yourself up off of the couch.

“I'm gonna go see what they’re up to, then.”

You’re so bold as to lay a gentle hand briefly on his shoulder as you pass him by, lingering just long enough to let something sincere slip.

“I hope you enjoy the book.”

He kicks his folded legs back out, crossing them as they come to rest on the opposite armrest once again.

“Don’t spoil it for me.”

You smile at his avoidance of your sentimentality, laughing a bit as you cross the room, headed for the back door, your tone playful.

“I make no promises!”

A/N: Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed! You can find my (lengthy) commentary on this fic in the end notes right here on Ao3. Links to the playlist and moodboard for [N]MbD can be found on this blog's pinned post, as well as in the series notes on Ao3. Header Image Source: x

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stellar-solar-flare · 1 month

Text

Warmth | S. R. | oneshot

Mature | Steve Rogers x Chronically Ill Reader

I’ll take care of you, he had said then. I love you. I always will. On the bad days and the good ones.

AUTHOR MASTERLIST | AUTHOR AO3

Established relationship, married couple, romance, fluff & hurt/comfort, angst with a happy/hopeful ending. Reader is good friends with Bucky and Nat.

Word Count: 1,771 words.

Reader Specifics: She/her. Mid-to-late twenties. Has a chronical illness that causes pain and fatigue, no specific diagnosis mentioned. Married to Steve. No description of appearance (other than clothes and such), no use of Y/N.

Warnings: Themes of chronic pain & illness, and the feelings that such conditions may cause, including self-worth and self-esteem issues.

I do not own anything Marvel related. This is an unofficial fan work. No copyright infringement intended. This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

You get close.

The base of the batter is done, butter and chocolate melted, instant coffee and sugars mixed into it, milk and eggs and vanilla extract poured into the bowl. The kitchen of the Tower floor you and Steve share is downright indulgent, spacious enough that you can spread everything out and you try to work fast enough before being up becomes too much to bear. You manage to ignore the nagging tingling of your body, the slow burning that goes in waves from knees all the way to your chest.

You grind your teeth, focus on the task at hand.

Just as you’re about to start sifting in the flour-cocoa mixture, the first red-hot knife sinks into your stomach. You yelp, even as you knew it was coming, and with the second strike of the blade, you drop down to crouch next to the kitchen counter, squeezing the edge of the counter with both hands, fingers cramping from the grip.

Eyes closed, you wait as the pain drums through your body with every heartbeat, nerves aflame with lightning, muscles contracting and releasing. You try to breathe through it, squeeze your eyelids together to keep the tears at bay.

That’s where Steve finds you.

It doesn’t alarm him like it used to; he no longer drops a bag of groceries down when he sees you like this. Instead, he sets it gently down next to the fridge and steps closer, kneeling down on the floor next to you. His warm palm slides over the back of your dress.

“You were supposed to rest, darling,” he scolds gently.

You glare at him with tear-filled eyes, but the anger melts away when you see the worry on his face. That has stayed, even as he has learned that anything like this is not inherently dangerous.

“I wanted to bake. I was craving mud cake and the store-bought just never hits the right spot.”

“I would’ve baked for you,” he sighs.

“I don’t want you to bake for me! I want to be able to do things myself. I want this stupid goddamn body to fucking function like it should be,” you snap, regretting the bite in your voice the second the words have left your mouth.

“I know,” he says. “I know how it is. I know how much it sucks.”

And he does. It is almost impossible to remember that sometimes, after watching footage of him yanking helicopters out of the sky, but once, this was his life too.

“Yeah, the difference being that you’re no longer pathetic,” you mumble.

“You are not pathetic. It’s just a rough patch,” he says.

He knows where it’s coming from.

You still remember the time you got your diagnosis, how you told Steve that you should break off the engagement, that you didn’t expect him to hitch his wagon to this. You went as far as sleeping on Nat’s sofa for a week, and then Bucky forced himself through the door and sat you down and looked at you with eyes full of Winter Soldier steel.

You really think he can’t take this, huh? If there’s one person who understands how it feels to be in pain and helpless, one person that will know why you’re full of frustration and anger at times, it’s Steve Rogers, he had said.

It’s not about what he can take. It’s about what he deserves, and what I don’t, you had grumbled in response, desperately not trying to show how much you missed sleeping in Steve’s warm arms at night.

So he wasn’t worthy of being loved and taken care of when he was sick and incapacitated and chronically ill? Would you love him any less if the serum fell out of him and he went back to that state?

Of course not. But that’s different.

How’s that different?

Because you are a fucking asshole, Bucky Barnes, you had spat, knowing that to resort to ad hominem was to admit defeat.

Oh, I am, he had grinned. But right now, I am the fucking asshole who is right.

And he had been precisely that. Steve had welcomed you back with open arms, and you had cried against his chest until you had felt like you could breathe again, until the words ‘chronic’ and ‘illness’ didn’t feel like they were sucking all the air out of your lungs.

I’ll take care of you, he had said then. I love you. I always will. On the bad days and the good ones.

You know that. You know Steve Rogers makes no such promises if he doesn’t mean them, but sometimes it isn’t the same to know something on a rational level and accept it emotionally. On some days, you are full of pain-sharpened thorns and god, you just want to prick something that is beautiful, want to wallow in the self-pity and despise any light that tries to reach your darkness.

“Help you to bed?” he asks, and you don’t want to, but you nod nevertheless.

He lifts you up. It’s spring; he’s been out in simply a button-down and slacks, and you can feel his warmth through the cotton as he holds you against his chest. At least this part was easy. At least you knew that taking care of you wasn’t straining his body.

You’ve done what you can to make the apartment into an oasis of peace, and the bedroom is no exception. The bed is huge, filled with soft sheets and a pile of pillows that can be moved to allow you to rest as comfortably as possible. Steve sets you down on your side and sheds the clothes he’s been outside in before getting into bed next to you. You groan at the feeling of his body, covered only by the boxer briefs, pressing against your back, warm and relaxing like a furnace.

“You’re the best heating pad in the world,” you manage to smile, snuggling deeper into his embrace as your muscles start to relax.

He chuckles against your neck and presses a kiss to the back of your neck. Lying down, as much as you hate to admit, always seems to make a wave of relief flow through your body, muscles relaxing. Steve’s palm smooths over your side, stroking again and again, and the relaxation deepens, seeps into every muscle.

“The oven’s on,” you mumble, as he makes no attempt to move. “The groceries you brought are still in the kitchen.”

In response, he rucks up your dress and places his palm over your stomach, and you can’t help but groan at the relief of the warmth.

“I’m on heating pad duty,” he says. “Those can wait.”

You sigh, despite the smile on your face.

“I really thought I had enough spoons. It was better today, until it wasn’t.”

“It’s okay. It’s not always predictable.”

It’s not. And he knows that’s the worst part of it.

“I wanted you to come home to something nice.”

“I come home to you every day.”

“Flatterer,” you say, but despite the words, you entwine your fingers into his on top of your stomach.

Your wedding rings make a small clink when they touch his. It had been a longer engagement than you had initially planned; you had wanted to make sure he wasn’t marrying you just because of duty, just because he felt like he should, now that he knew you were going to battle with this for the rest of your life. He had countered that with the argument that he had proposed to you even before he had known anything about this, when your illness had still masked itself into bouts of tiredness.

He had convinced you. Your wedding portrait, Steve lifting you up and spinning you around, hangs above your bed, and even on the worst of days, looking at it brings a smile to your face.

Bucky had cried through the entire ceremony.

“Do you want me to get your meds?” Steve asks.

“I already took them; can’t take more right now. Lot of good that did.”

“Hey,” comes the whisper against your neck.

The tears that have barely dried escape your eyes again. Steve feels you tense and kisses the back of your neck again, the hand on you pulling you closer against him.

“I feel so useless,” you say. “Everyone’s so nice to me; I’m everyone’s stupid charity project.”

He has heard all of this before; this conversation comes every time you are going through a rough patch, and every time, his answers are full of patience and love.

God, what have you done to deserve him?

“Or they’re your friends – our friends. They like you. You are more than this, even though it doesn’t feel like that right now. You are plenty of things outside this illness. And I love you, for reasons that have nothing to do with whether or not you’re useful.”

“And you’re the stubborn dumbass who married himself into this mess.”

“I’m definitely both,” he says. “But neither of those have anything to do with the fact that I married you. And the doctor told you to rest, so who’s the stubborn one here?”

“Hypocrite,” you say. “Bucky has certainly told me how good you were at resting up, huh?”

You hear the chagrinned laugh and know the expression on his face. He mumbles something about how he really needs to get Bucky to stop telling stories about his youth to you, if they are just going to be used against him.

“Too late,” you say.

The tiredness is creeping over you again; being up in the middle of a bad flare-up has taken more out of you than you care to admit, and Steve’s closeness has taken all the bitter fight that had remained after the energy had drained out.

“I know it’s hard to rest when it doesn’t feel like rest is making any difference,” he says. “But you still should.”

You want to fight him, but your eyelids are falling closed as his warmth has filled your every crampy muscle and tight tendon.

“I love you,” he whispers into your ear. “Sleep well, beautiful.”

“Loveyatoo,” you mumble in response, the safety of his presence nudging you over the edge of consciousness and into sleep.

An hour later, you wake up to the scent of freshly-baked mud cake floating through the apartment and smile into the room, feeling like you could go for a big slice and a nice cup of coffee, sitting across from Steve and listening to him talk about his day.

Even in a rough patch, it’s not all bad.

#steve rogers x reader #stellarsolarflare literary universe #tw chronic illness #tw chronic pain #steve rogers x chronically ill reader #steve rogers romance

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