This Is Super Interesting, I Never Thought About The Way Etiquette Changes Depending On Past Or Current

Now I feel so awful that Bea is definitely going to die omg. Author why did you have to make the couple so lovable 😭

Also I love the way you wrote this chapter with the narrator acknowledging that these two obviously aren't going to be together forever, with a mix of foreshadowing and saying it straight up. It's a really cool way to write this story and I'm so excited to see more!!

One question I have is if Rosalie and Y/N's romance is going to be during the Twilight timeline? Or before it?

Thanks for the wonderful chapter author!

Bound | Chapter 5

Word Count: 2.3K Warnings: queer harassment

Summary: Rosalie always carried the resentment of not being able to fulfill the image of the perfect family she had in her head. But the universe had set out to grant her everything she could’ve hoped for in the most unconventional way and in the form of a witch. Can their love withstand the promise of forever or will Rosalie and (Y/N) succumb to the grapples of time?

A/N: oh, oh, I'm falling in love with a pairing that will not work out... I know I'm the writer, but, damn. I am breaking my own heart here. 🫠🫠 also, two chapters in one day, wow

<- Previous

There would come a day when (Y/N) didn’t have Beatrice Porter by her side. There would come a day when she wouldn’t be able to roll over in her bed and find the onyx-black strands of her hair splayed over a pillow or kiss her eyelids as they fluttered in sleep. But in 1935, she didn’t know that. 

In 1935, she still believed they had forever. At least as long as forever could be in their human lives. And because she didn’t know, she was able to live in the absolute bliss of being with her best friend. 

As she brushed her hair out of the tight coil of the curlers she wore to bed, (Y/N) smiled at the sleeping figure of Bea on her bed. The sun had barely started to shine through the curtains, basking her pale body in the warm light of its rays. Her shoulders peeked through the white sheets, rising and falling with the evenness of her breaths. She was a vision of beauty that (Y/N) had been lucky enough to witness. 

By the time the witch was putting on her earrings, Bea stirred from her slumber, a lazy smile tugging at her lips. “Good morning,” she croaked. “You look beautiful.” 

“Hm, I was going for smart,” (Y/N) chuckled. “Is it the necklace or the hair?” 

“It’s your face,” the girl smiled. “You could play hooky, you know. Spend the day with me rather than at the university.” 

“A rather tempting offer,” she said as she walked toward the bed, crawling to Bea. “But I’m too close to graduating now. I’ve already had to argue with enough men who believe that higher education is no place for a woman.” 

“Well, in that case, give them hell,” Bea smirked. “I suppose I should do my own studying then. I do have a test this week and have gone to three classes at the most. I just don’t see the point if I’m going to stay here. Magic doesn’t require human schooling.”

“But the coven does need to change with the times. We need to strive for better. For bigger,” (Y/N) explained. “Living in the woods is amazing, but it keeps us secluded. Alienated. We need to find ways to blend in with society. Hide in plain sight. That’s the key to survival.” 

“You’ve always had great plans for the coven. You will make a wonderful High Priestess one day.” 

“One can only hope,” she sighed contentedly. “But for now, I can do my part in gaining more knowledge of how the outside world works. Find a way witches and other supernaturals can live amongst humans undetected. There may not be as many, but you know there are still people out there that hunt our kind. I mean, just last week, we received word of a coven in Louisiana being burnt down by so-called Modern Witch Hunters. We’ve learned to hide, but clearly not well enough.” 

“Cruelty will always be an incurable sickness in humans,” Bea grumbled. “People in high school taught us that early on.” 

The memory made (Y/N) grimace. They hadn’t done anything wrong. Stood by their respective lockers, the two girls had simply been talking and decided to sneak a soft caress. (Y/N) had only brushed a stray ringlet of hair that had fallen over Bea’s eyes. But her fingers had lingered too long, and their stare was a little too intense. A pair of boys had been walking down the hallways at that precise moment and had decided that what the girls were doing was too queer for their liking. 

Deeming (Y/N) as the instigator, they had snatched her and carried her to the nearest dumpster while calling her a slew of slurs and insults. All this while Bea cried and begged them to stop. It took everything in them both not to use their powers, knowing the punishment for using magic with humans was magic binding for an undetermined amount of time. 

As the lid closed above her and the smell of trash engulfed her, (Y/N) promised never to show an ounce of affection to her friend outside of the protective confines of their coven. There, no one questioned or talked in whispers –although some eyes did follow them at times. But it was nothing like the treatment they endured outside. A couple of stares here and there was nothing like finding dead animals stuffed in your locker, or being unable to walk down the street without being accompanied by a big enough group, or having to stay as far away from your best friend as possible because you don’t know who will attack you for what they believe. 

“You know, Annabeth is leaving in July,” Bea said, changing the topic as she saw how it upset (Y/N). “She was accepted to the University of Tennessee. She says there’s something about the state that calls to her, but I don’t understand why she would go so far. There are enough good schools nearby.” 

“Well, she’s setting her own path,” (Y/N) smiled, brushing a strand of hair behind Bea’s ear. “Your sister has always been quite the free spirit.”   

“That she is,” she chuckled. “Momma is going with her to help her settle in and everything. She also wants to make sure she’s comfortable with the coven over there.” 

“Would you go with her if she asked?” 

“And leave you up here all alone?” the girl scoffed. “Wouldn’t even think about it for a second.” 

“All you’d need is a big enough body of water, and you could come here anytime.”

“Are you suggesting that I leave, (Y/N) Carmine? Do you not want me here?”

“Oh please, don’t even say that. But she is your sister, Bea,” (Y/N) laughed. “You could at least pretend to ponder over the idea. Your family has always been so close-knit.”

“She’d understand,” Bea shrugged with a mischievous smile. “I’ve got something special here.” 

“You’re bad,” she grinned before kissing the girl’s temple. “And I’m going to be late.” 

“Fine,” Bea conceded. “I’ll let you go as long as you bring me some doughnuts.” 

“Of course. I wouldn’t dare come home without them.” 

“Good,” she beamed. “Then, I guess you can go.” 

It was simplicities such as those that (Y/N) reveled in. She may not have been allowed to hold Bea’s hand in public or even say how much she loved her, but she had their home. Behind those four walls, they were able to simply exist. No labels to concern themselves with, no judgment, and certainly no harassment. 

As the day trickled by and class after class passed, (Y/N) couldn’t help but have her mind divided between her education and the girl waiting for her at home. Everything reminded her of Bea. The black fabric of the chairs she sat on was the same color as her hair, the blue of the sky matched perfectly with the iciness of her eyes, and the smell of the town’s bakery reminded her of the girl’s favorite treat. 

There was nowhere she could turn that didn’t remind her of Beatrice, and there was no one on Earth she could love more than her… at least, that’s what she believed at that moment. By then, she had no idea her soul was bound to an immortal, nor that her life would go on after Bea passed one day. At that moment, she knew only of the fleetingness of life and the importance of living in the present. There was no way for her to know how fleeting those moments were when eternity came into play. 

For now, she enjoyed every second she had in the life she believed was passing.

She was coming out of the bakery when she was met with Russell Morgan, a witch from their coven who had always been kind and concerned over her and Bea. She knew he’d always had his eye on Beatrice, leaving flowers and trinkets on their porch for her. Though he understood the relationship the girls shared, he couldn’t help the affinity he held for the young witch. And none of it bothered (Y/N). Bea had made her choice, and it had been her. 

“Hello, Russ,” she smiled as he matched her pace, knowing he was escorting her home without mentioning it. “How was your day today?” 

“Can’t complain,” he chuckled. “Just making it through this last semester. Hoping I hear back from med school any day now. That’s been the most stressful thing.” 

“I’m sure you’ll get in,” she said. “You’re brilliant, Russ. They’d be lucky to have you. And you know New Forest witches seem to do well in medical school.” 

“Well, we do have a certain je ne sais quoi,” he laughed. “And, uh, how’s Bea been recently? I haven’t seen her as much in lessons.” 

“You know her. Most days, she doesn’t even want to get out of bed,” she smiled. “But I’ve already made a deal with her. For every day that she attends lessons, I’ll bring her a new pastry from the bakery.” 

“That will definitely get her there,” Russell chuckled. “And Margaret won’t be angry at her.” 

“Oh, Margaret’s a big softie at heart.” 

“She really is. And uh, are you two still…” 

(Y/N) knew he wouldn’t get the words out. He never did. “Yes. Bea and I are still,” she chuckled softly. “Don’t think that’s changing any time soon.”

“Well, not that I’m not happy for you two, but a man can only hope,” he said as his cheeks grew red in slight embarrassment. She knew he meant nothing by it and also understood the pull Bea held. “I do hope for you years of happiness. Even if the world hasn’t caught up to different kinds of love.”

“I know, Russ. And I am grateful for your wishes and your friendship. I know one day you’ll meet a woman as wonderful as you.” 

“I sure hope so. Mom is on me about giving her grandkids already. Apparently, the two kids my sister has already given her are not enough.” 

“No amount will ever be enough,” she laughed. “But she might be closer than you think, Russ.” 

And neither of them had any idea how true the statement was. 

Back at the house, the smell of fresh bread and beef stew filled the air. The scent alone made (Y/N)’s stomach grumble, knowing the flavor would be even better than the smell. The dinner table was already set, complete with a set of flickering candles. 

“What’s the occasion?” (Y/N) smiled as she kissed Bea’s cheek. “Everything looks so beautiful.” 

“Do we need an occasion to have a candle-lit dinner?” Bea said. “I just felt like it. Especially since you brought me some of my favorite doughnuts.” 

“Maybe I should bring you doughnuts every day.” 

“I wouldn’t be opposed to that,” she grinned. “And if they’re sugar doughnuts, even better.” 

“Do you really think I’d bring you any others?” 

“Better not,” she laughed. “But I just wanted to do something nice for you. Because I love you, and you deserve it.” 

“You’re the best, Bea,” (Y/N) beamed. “I love you more than the moon loves the sun.” 

With a flick of her hand, music filled the kitchen, and their bodies swayed to the rhythm that played through the radio. They swirled through the room, forgetting the stew that bubbled on the stove and the candles that were melting on the table. But they didn’t care. All they cared about was the fact that they were happy, they were healthy, and they were together. They filled a house with love and joy, and that seemed enough. 

“Do you think there will ever be a way we could have kids?” Bea asked absentmindedly. “I know it couldn’t really happen naturally. But maybe adopting.”

“I don’t think that could happen, Bea,” (Y/N) sighed. “At least not us together or even as single women living together. The world isn’t ready for that, darling.” 

“Oh, what a tragedy,” she sighed. “You would be a great mother.” 

“As would you, Beatrice,” the witch smiled sadly. “Is that something you really want? Children, I mean.” 

“Well, it had always been my dream to have a big family. Little ones running around, a home, someone to grow old with,” she admitted. “I just thought it was the normal way life would move toward.” 

“But I can’t give you all of that, Bea,” (Y/N) sniffled. She stopped their swaying and rested her forehead against Bea’s, a thin stream of tears falling down her eyes. “I can’t give you everything you’ve dreamed of.”

“Well, darling, I don’t want any of that if it’s not with you,” she assured. “I am perfectly content with just having you for the rest of my life.” 

“I want you to have everything you’ve ever dreamed of, Beatrice. I don’t want you to settle just for love. What if, one day, you wake up and realize that love isn’t enough for you? That kids and marriage is what you wanted all along.” 

Bea smiled warmly then, cradling (Y/N)’s face and wiping away the tears that stained her cheeks. “And what makes you think that your love is not enough?” she cooed. “I would wait a thousand years if it meant I got to live my life with you. Children are never a sure thing. Even if I married a man, there is no certainty that I could fall pregnant. But, with you, I know there is love. That is certain, and that is what I need.”

She sealed her words with a chaste kiss to (Y/N)’s lips, slipping through her mouth all the love she felt for her best friend. It was a promise of a future together, a promise of forever. But how could they have known that forever would not have been long enough? That the end of their forever was just around the corner. 

“Now, why don’t we sit and eat already?” Beatrice smiled.”I’m starving.” 

“Alright then,” (Y/N) said. “Let’s eat, and cheers to forever then.” 

“Cheers to forever.”

My content will always be free, but if you’re feeling particularly generous, you can leave a tip on any of my posts  or buy me a coffeeto support me and my love of writing If you’d like to be tagged in this or any other story: click here Make sure you have my notifications on so you know every time I post!

Taglist:@winter-soldier-101@zheezs14@a-sifu-hotman @byelannie@sunflowerleii @dyslexiccatterpillar @blackbluerose666 @slutforsainz @kortniec696 @xcastawayherosx @bluebirbnamedjay @sirenheadenby @andreiaafaria @bluetreecloud20@sunshine2894 @valejewel @mushroomelephant @swidkid @skyesthebomb@esposadomd @nocturnalherb16 @rosalie-whitlock

@avis15@honeylovemoon@wonieeee@baebeepeach@krazyk99@klf1999@sl-ut@adaydreamaway08@toomanythoughts33@sugasthreedollarkookie @fandomonetwo @fruitylilfuck @honeywxter @haroldpotterson @kaita11 @gangstalcous06 @uwunuggetchan @elijahssuit @multifandomreader73 @ellabellabus07 @blackloveangel13 @euphoria1992

@saltedcoffeescotch@lowkeysaurus@zealouscookierebeltrash@sleepilysworld@laylasbunbunny@american-satanes @cevans-winchester@avada-kedavra-bitch-187@jstarr86 @coquita @ilikepunsbeth@itsmytimetoodream @laury-blackbeak @unstablekay@midnightmisses@magical-spit @ratsys @hopexargent @druigsluver29 @fresita1218 @unicornicopia1@the-house-of-rose-and-ember@nessaasstuff@simon-e-mallory

@fandom-simp-aleksandra @isybella2408@cinffy23@second-daughter-of-clexa

@urmomsfav-stuff @evattude@cerejinha @the-irish-princess @alyeskathewave @heartfilia01 @jinxxangel13 @rinalouu @haikyuuswhore @arcaurix @cheshirecat484 @bloobewy @pinkrockstar19

This is so good oh my gosh!! I love the sassy main character and Daredevils reaction!! If you ever want to write more for this, please feel free to tag me in it!!

THE DEVIL'S GAME

MATT MURDOCK X VIGILANTE!READER

Summary - Seeking retribution, you find yourself wandering into Hell's Kitchen, only to become ensnared by the Daredevil himself.

Warnings - 18+, broken bones, blood, flirty shit, vaguely suggestive

Word Count - 2.9k

// masterlist // send me your thoughts //

Hell’s Kitchen wasn’t your neighborhood.  

But you hadn’t thought twice about it before leaving the comfort of your home, abandoning Queens to fulfill a dream of paltry retribution.  

Any other night and you might have considered the consequences of crossing into the Kitchen, but tonight your judgment had been clouded by an opportunity to finally lay your hands on the slippery brute that had gotten under your skin as of late.  

And, by the time you realized that you had willingly traipsed into the Devil’s Realm, it had been far too late.  

Farlin Costain was a particularly skilled pick-pocket, renowned amongst his fellow New York gutter rats—including petty thieves, drug dealers, and the likes—for his stealth and cunning. Typically, you wouldn’t have bothered with someone so low on the food chain, leaving him for some smaller vigilante to handle.  

Unfortunately for Costain, he made a costly mistake when he had made a target of your sweet, innocent roommate last week. And while you once wouldn’t have spared Costain so much as a second glance, you now had every intention of making him regret the very day he was born.  

“C’mon Farly! Already giving up?” You sang, patronizing him as you pressed your foot down harder against his breastbone. “I thought you wanted to play! Remember?”  

Word spread like wildfire that you were looking for Costain as every back-alley criminal in New York gossiped about what he must’ve done to catch your eye. Because of this, it only took a few days for Costain to catch wind that you were on his trail—and, being an absolute moron, he spent an entire drunken night in Scruffy Duffy’s Saloon bragging to friends and strangers alike that, should you find him, he could easily take you in a fight.  

Alas, the bartender at Duffy’s—an old informant of yours—was glad to send you a text detailing Costain’s visit. The pieces fell into place quickly after that, and soon you found out that the asshole was staying in a shitty mid-rise apartment just down the street from the bar.  

He hadn’t heard you when you skillfully leapt from the neighboring building, landing atop his apartment to spy him and a few of his cut-purse buddies passing a joint. As soon as you stepped into the light, his friends scurried like roaches, darting for the door to the stairwell.  

None of them were particularly recognizable, and since your vendetta wasn’t with them, you gladly let them escape.  

But not Costain.  

“Fucking cunt!” Costain wheezed beneath your weight, writhing on the gravel that lined the rooftop and spitting blood on your shiny black boots. You grimaced—disgusting.  

“Is that the best you’ve got? Blood can be cleaned up—but it’s gonna take weeks for your nose to heal. Do you really want your friends to find out that you couldn’t take me? That you couldn’t even get a hit in?” You continued to chastise him, head cocking to the side as you examined the blood still gushing from his now crooked nose.  

To Farlin’s credit, he had tried to fight back, having pulled a switchblade out as soon as you made a move for him. Unfortunately for him, the stealth needed to swipe wallets and watches was as far as his combat skills seemed to go, and it had taken you less than a few seconds to send the blade tumbling over the edge of the rooftop, clanking on the sidewalk below.  

But what Costain lacked in skill, he certainly made up for in spirit.  

“I can’t fucking breathe!” He rasped; his throat still raw from all the screaming he’d done after the nauseating crunch of his nasal bones. Thrashing beneath you, he lifted his hands to your ankle and began clawing and hitting and scratching, desperately trying to pry your foot off of his chest. “Get off!”  

You didn’t so much as flinch as his fists whirled at your calf, nor did you relieve any of the pressure you were applying to his breast. Instead, you pressed even harder, giving him a wicked grin.  

“You’re left-handed, aren’t you?” You mused, noting the slight weakness of the punches coming from his right. “Are you ambidextrous?”  

Gasping, Costain’s eyes lit with fury as a strangled sound ripped from his throat, growling at you.  

“I’ll take that as a no,” You hummed, your cheshire grin growing wider now. “They say that anyone can learn, y’know. How to use both hands.”  

Crouching down, you forced more of your weight onto him as you leaned over his face, your loose hair grazing his cheek. The fury in his eyes had already extinguished, replaced with an icy fear. His arms began to fall limp at his sides, his body too oxygen deprived to keep fighting you.  

“If you wanna learn,” you droned, tracing a single digit along the curve of his plump, blue lips, “then I’d be glad to give you some encouragement.”  

Faster than light, you slid your weight off his chest, rising above him. Farlin heaved at the loss of pressure, miserably trying to fill his aching lungs with air.  

Too delirious to fight back, he didn’t even notice when you lunged for his wrist, grabbing hold and hastily yanking him to his feet. You pressed your other hand right above his elbow, giving it all your force as you snapped his arm at the joint, the bones splintering and giving a deeply satisfying CRUNCH!  

Farlin had filled his greedy lungs with just enough oxygen to let out a gnarly scream as the pain washed over him like a tidal wave, sending him crumbling to his knees in front of you.  

“Damn, my bad,” you huffed, frowning at the sight of him, hot tears streaming down his cheeks as he clutched his right arm. “I was supposed to break the left one, wasn’t I? I can be such a ditz sometimes, huh? But no worries—I can fix this!”  

You went to reach for his left arm, taking far too much pleasure in the terror that ignited in his glossy eyes, but the adrenaline now pumping in his veins gave him an edge. Using his newfound chemical courage to try and scramble away from your assault, he managed to just barely evade the quick swipe of your hand, only to then fall backwards onto his ass.  

You snorted a laugh at him—useless.  

Too terrified to try and make a second attempt at escape, Costain only looked up at you with pleading eyes, silently begging you to leave him alone. You considered it for a second—just one—scrounging deep within yourself for even a trace of pity for the thief.  

Unfortunately, you came up empty-handed, as you often did when dealing with trash like Costain.  

You went for his left arm a second time, but as soon as you took a single step, something stopped you.  

No—scratch that—not something, but someone.  

A muscular arm wrapped around your middle, trapping your arms at your sides. You went to make your escape, but before you could tense even a single muscle, another arm wrapped around your throat—not applying pressure, not yet, but effectively trapping you and leaving you incredibly vulnerable.  

“I think he’s had enough for one night,” a luscious voice spoke in your ear, the warmth of their breath grazing along your neck, “Don’t you?”  

You were as still as a doe in headlights, carefully flicking your gaze down to the arms wrapping around you. Noticing the all-black sleeves that covered them, you sunk your teeth into your cheek. As far as you could tell from your current position, there was nothing discernable about the mystery man holding you hostage.  

“Not at all,” you admitted to him, cunning as ever. “I was just getting started.”  

The man gave a disapproving grunt. “You’ve already terrified him. He can hardly breathe,” he pointed out as if you weren’t aware of the heaving mess lying on the ground in front of you.  

“Even better,” you quipped, trying not to flinch when the arm around your waist suddenly tightened. “I like it when they’re afraid.”  

His breath caressed your skin again as he scoffed, shaking his head. “Look, I don’t care what kind of sadistic game you like to play with these men, but keep it your own borough, got it? I’ve heard about what you’ve done in Queens—and my neighborhood isn’t open to being your new playground.”  

The declaration gave you pause. Your breath caught in your throat as you suddenly remembered where you were and whose territory you had crossed into and made a mess in. His neighborhood– 

Fuck—you swallowed, only to find that your mouth had gone dry—he’s the fucking Daredevil.  

Costain seemed to put the pieces together at the same time as you. And, while still weeping over his shattered nose and broken arm, decided to crawl towards the infamous Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, hiding behind him and deciding to take his chances with him over you.  

Fucking coward.  

“I didn’t realize the Devil kept tabs on the rest of us,” you teased, trying to settle the pounding of your heart as you grappled with the dangerous fact that the Daredevil knew who you were. “You never bother coming to the annual vigilante sleepovers.”  

He hummed, but there was no hint of amusement. “I only keep tabs on the one's worth knowing about—and you have been making quite a mess. Last I heard, you were leaving innocent men mangled and bloody on every street corner from Queens to Brooklyn.”  

Irritation warmed your veins, blood thrumming in your ears as you howled, “Innocent?!” You gave a dry laugh, “The men I deal with are far from innocent, Devil-boy! The man you just saved is a fucking thief! And last I checked, you and I are supposed to be on the same team!”  

“We aren’t even playing the same game, sweetheart.” Daredevil corrected, the endearment slipping from his tongue sounding more like an insult than anything else. “He’s a petty thief. If your only interest was in keeping the streets clean, then you could’ve easily taken him down and left him on the doorstep of the nearest police station.”  

You cut your eyes, slumping in his hold. “And where’s the fun in that?”  

“You really are hopeless,” He snorted, unimpressed. “One broken arm is more than enough retribution for a pick-pocket. Swear you won’t touch him, and I’ll let you go.”  

“Or I could break your arm instead,” you suggested coyly, either in an attempt to flirt with or distract him.  

You tried to wiggle your arms at your sides, assessing just how much you were able to move. His own muscled arm rested just above your elbows, leaving some limited motion in your wrists and forearms. You wouldn’t be able to do much with it—nothing spectacular—but maybe…  

“If you thought you were strong enough to do that then you would’ve tried it already.” He countered.  

“Well, physical strength isn’t the only way out of a sticky situation, Devil-boy,” you reminded him. “But I’m more than confident that I could kick your ass.”  

The hold around your neck suddenly grew taut, his forearm lightly pressing against your windpipe in a subtle reminder that he was much stronger than you. “With a single move,” he purred, “I could snap your neck. Your life is in my hands.”  

Your pulse throbbed, but you didn’t panic, even as every instinct you had was screaming at you to give in—to stop antagonizing him and vow to never lay another hand on Costain again.  

But you were never very good at listening to that little voice in your head that told you what to do.  

Taking a hefty bet on your life, you used what limited motion you had in your arms to wiggle them back and slide them around his hips. You felt his muscles tense, readying himself to fight you or choke you or something, but juvenile laughter was already spilling from your lips as you brazenly cupped his backside in your palms.  

“My life might be in your hands,” you declared through a fit of giggles, “but your ass is in mine!”  

Your confidence grew when you realized that he hadn’t yet choked you out for your insolence—too stunned to react at all—and so you took full advantage of his inability to move without releasing you. Using your newfound grip on him, you shoved his crotch against your ass, grinding back against him just enough to catch him further off-guard.  

An involuntary groan slipped his lips at the rough contact, his voice gloriously low and hoarse and absolutely to die for.  

Daredevil figured you would try to fight back, but he had been expecting something along the lines of hand-to-hand combat—and not once had he considered that your preferred method of fighting would be grinding your ass against his dick.  

Shocked, unprepared, and a little horny, Daredevil took a step back to try and put space between your body’s, his grip turning lax as his blood rushed south. You took advantage of his single moment of weakness, managing to slip from his grasp with some ease now.  

“See?” You boasted, holding your arms out dramatically as you stood in front of him, finally face to face. “I told you physical strength wasn’t the only way out.”  

Daredevil was quick to regain his composure, and when you noticed a muscle feather in his jaw, you had the good sense to move swiftly into a ready position—just in case the Devil wanted to dance.  

But he made no move towards you, even as your fists lifted in his direction. He stayed where he was, clicking his tongue as he said, “You fight dirty.”  

A smirk played on your lips. “You don’t know the half of it. But don’t worry, I’m just as much a masochist as I am a sadist,” you teased, blatantly admiring the appearance of his toned muscles beneath the tight-fitting black shirt he wore, “so we can take turns, if you want.”  

He laughed, actually laughed. “Never gonna happen.”  

You stuck your bottom lip out, pouting at him, but he didn’t react.  

“Why not? Looks to me like you enjoyed having me touch you,” you spared a glance to the now sizable bulge in his dark jeans. “Tell you what, Devil-boy, let me break his other arm and I’ll consider taking care of that for you.”  

Costain gave a pathetic whimper at that, as if he too could sense the growing tension in the air and worried that Daredevil might be willing to sell-out in favor of getting off.  

Ignoring his whining, Daredevil took a step closer to you, and then another. Your body reacted, muscles growing taut as you prepared yourself to strike him. But, when he halted less than a couple of inches from you, you felt as if your bones had all but turned to jelly.  

He smelled of expensive cologne and cheap coffee, and even with the black mask covering the entire upper half of his face, you had no doubt that he was impossibly handsome. Your heart thrummed wildly in your chest, and as if he could hear it, he gave you a satisfied grin.  

“Your mouth is as filthy as your techniques,” he rebuked, though a hint of amusement and intrigue laced his tone. “Tell you what,” Daredevil mimicked you, “you’re gonna get out of my neighborhood—now. And, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stick to your side of the city from now on.” His breath fanned against your cheeks, and a warmth suddenly crept up your neck. “Got it?”  

“And if I don’t?” You felt incredibly small beneath his impressive height, having bent your neck to look up at him.  

The Devil seemed to stare down at you—no, he seemed to stare through you, though his eyes remained entirely hidden beneath the mask. You wondered what color they were, if they were as pretty as the rest of him, and how they might look rolling into the back of his head as you straddled his waist—but your fantasies were cut short as he stretched an arm towards you and roughly caught your jaw in his hand.  

You grunted at the unexpected contact, the sound making his grin grow wider. His nails scraped lightly against your cheek as you tried to jerk away from the touch, but it was a futile attempt. “If you don’t,” he muttered, leaning in closer as his tongue glided across his lips, enticing you further, “then I’ll make sure that you regret it.”  

A bit breathless, you tried your best to sound unaffected, only for the slight wobble in your voice to give you away, “Sounds like a challenge.”  

His head tilted to the side, as if he were watching you, listening to the erratic pounding in your chest and the sound of blood rushing your veins. For a heartbeat you let your gaze fall to his chiseled jaw, to his mouth, calculating the risk of leaning in and catching his pouty bottom lip between your teeth.  

“It’s not,” he assured you, his voice thick and gruff. “It’s a promise.”  

You stifled a hiss as he released your jaw from his grip. He didn’t spare another word before turning away, the gravel crunching beneath his clunky combat boots as he went straight to Costain, heaving the thief off the ground by his non-broken arm.  

If it were anyone else stealing away your target, you likely would’ve cut them down right alongside Costain. 

But it hadn’t been just anyone—it was the Devil.  

Dumbstruck and more than mildly infatuated with the alluring Daredevil, you knew that tonight would be the first of many visits to Hell’s Kitchen. 

my brain is rotting because i've written 44+k words in a single month because i decided to rewrite infinitely you and while taking a small break from working on it i created this garbage fire of a matt murdock one shot.

thanks for reading

PLEASE do yourself a favour and check out this wikipedia-styled template for google drive, made by @ Rukidut on twitter

I decided to try to sort my ideas and whats canon regarding my ocs with this and ITS PERFECT. IT ALL FEELS SO CONRETE. and i sure as hell AM Going to continue to use this with every single OC I have until google drives is set ablaze- Just!!!!!!!!

Also; link directly to the doc, just copy the file and you have your own lil template!!!!

ATTENTION ARTISTS OF TUMBLR

since tumblr is going to start scraping blogs to train ai be sure to glaze and nightshade your art!! Not only will both of these programs protect your art from being copied but nightshade also poisons any ai that tries to steal it

here is some more info on these tools and where you can download them:

Nightshade: Protecting Copyright (uchicago.edu)

Nightshade: Downloads (uchicago.edu)

Glaze - What is Glaze (uchicago.edu)

Glaze - Downloads (uchicago.edu)

Oh I love this!!! And I beg you humbly for a part two author, this is a delicious fic 🙏🙏🙏

If you do decide to make this a series please tag me!

I love the way you chose to write the reader's backstory, it ties into the story and universe incredibly well.

From A Previous Life

Cooper Howard (The Ghoul) x Fem!Reader

Summary: Bound and fearful, you seek answers from a mysterious stranger about the fate of those you love.

Warnings: Emotional hurt/comfort, mentions of death, pregnancy, non-detailed talk about experimentations, angst, grief, swearing, judgement, flirting (if you squint)

Word Count: 2.9K

A/N: My first Cooper fic! I've had this idea going around my head for a hot while and I really could go on, and on with more (yearning, smut, etc) but I just wanted to get out an initial one-shot that could potentially turn into more if any one likes it (or I end up adding to it anyway!) I'd love to hear your thoughts 💌

Silently, you moved through the desolate wastelands, each step stirring clouds of dust and veiling the once lively towns now reduced to rubble. Somewhere in California, though the exact whereabouts blurred, you were leagues away from the sanctuary you once called home, apparently almost two centuries ago. Time, to you, was an elusive concept, for the stiffness in your joints and the lingering ache betrayed the recent thaw from cryo-sleep. Your mind remained ensnared by fog, a residue of the drugs coursing through your veins during preservation.

Yet, your senses, dulled by centuries of slumber, detected his presence long before he materialized. Heavy footfalls pierced the barren silence, prompting a cautious glance over your shoulder. There he stood, solitary amidst the wasteland, a gun slung lazily across his back and a weathered ten-gallon hat shadowing his features. Perhaps he had spotted you, perhaps not; regardless, neither of you quickened your pace, silently agreeing to maintain a wary distance.

Ever cautious, you abruptly veered into the next structurally sound building, bracing for a potential standoff. Praying it wouldn't come to that, for the meagre supply of bullets salvaged from a fallen vault security guard, coupled with his erratic pistol, offered scant reassurance. The art of marksmanship was foreign to you, a skill unbefitting a woman of virtue in the world before its descent into chaos. Your pride lay in nurturing the home, not in extinguishing life.

"What would your husband make of this sight?" you thought. Clad in the worn remnants of the blue and yellow jumpsuit issued upon vault entry, now stained with blood and grime from your desperate flight. Would he mock your dishevelled appearance, your unadorned face and frayed nerves? Would he marvel at the pistol clenched tightly in your grasp, its weight unfamiliar and your trembling fingers poised on the trigger? Could he shoulder this burden, like you wish he was here to do so? Such musings left you unsettled, your husband's whereabouts a lingering question mark, conspicuously absent from your side.

Peering cautiously from beneath the window sill, your gaze swept the scorched landscape beyond. The lone figure should have drawn near by now, should have approached the building where you lay in wait, yet his silhouette remained absent from the horizon. Instead, the frigid touch of a gun barrel against the back of your skull sent a shiver down your spine, your body tensing instinctively under the ominous threat. You suppressed the cry that clawed at your parched throat, swallowing hard as you slowly lowered your pistol to the ground beside you.

"That's it, nice and slow," he instructed, his voice gruff with a hint of amusement. "You might be my easiest catch yet."

Realization dawned upon you—he had been tracking you. You inwardly chided yourself for your naivety before complying, raising your arms slowly with palms outstretched. Encountering no one in these barren lands, you were uncertain of the customs among people so removed from your time. You were one of them now, but survival demanded adaptation.

"Please, I don't have any money," you offered, hearing his scoff. "I mean it. Take my gun, you can have it."

His movement rustled the air, his presence brushing against you as he leaned to retrieve your pistol. A low hum of amusement escaped him, and you felt the cold barrel of his gun pressing against your skull before it vanished altogether.

"I don't want your hunk of junk, sweetheart," he drawled, tossing it back to the ground beside you. "Doubt it can punch through a tin can. No, what I seek is your cooperation."

"O-okay, yes," you agreed, the words tumbling from your lips almost too hastily, embarrassment flushing your cheeks.

A nudge at the side of your heel prompted you to turn and face him. You complied, shifting on your knees, arms growing weary as they remained raised above your head while you awkwardly pivoted to meet his gaze.

The scream tore from your throat as you beheld him, sending shivers down your spine. He loomed above you, his visage warped by decomposing, discoloured flesh that swathes his form. Cracked lips parted to reveal yellowed teeth in a perpetual grimace, his once vibrant eyes now a haunting shade of blue-green, still clinging to a trace of humanity amidst the decay. You recoiled at the absence of his nose, now a dark cavity amidst cartilage and bone.

"That's not polite," he admonished, his narrowed eyes betraying annoyance. Trembling under his scrutinizing gaze, you stammered out an apology, extending a trembling hand to ward him off as he took a step forward.

"Please, leave me alone. I-I don't have anything," you pleaded, but he showed no sign of relenting. Your fingers curled around the pistol on the ground, raising it shakily in his direction.

"Well now, what are you going to do with that?" His smirk deepened as you aimed the weapon at him.

His amusement infuriated and terrified you in equal measure. You were aware of your body shaking, aware that he saw it too. You hadn't formulated a plan, hadn't considered the consequences. But you'd never faced a situation like this, especially not with someone so grotesque yet strangely human. He spoke like a man but resembled a monster, reminiscent of the creatures from the old sci-fi holo tapes your husband used to rent on Friday nights, leaving you cowering behind embroidered cushions until the credits rolled. You weren't built for this, but just like only hours before, you must fight.

With a tight grip and clenched eyes, you pulled the trigger. The recoil sent you crashing against the wall, the impact jarring your head as the bullet ricocheted through the room, narrowly missing the man and striking a nearby doorway with a sharp ping.

"Well, that was disappointing," he remarked, his head cocked and lips drawn into a condescending smirk. "You finished, sweetheart?"

With a mixture of annoyance at your failure and frustration at his dismissive demeanour, you tossed the pistol at his feet. Your head throbbed, and as you tentatively touched the back of your skull with trembling fingers, you were unsurprised to find them stained with blood.

"Are you going to kill me?" you panted, forcing yourself to meet his gaze.

He shook his head, kicking at the dirt with his pointed boot before crouching in front of you. "Not much use to me dead, not much use to me at all if you don't cooperate," he emphasized, his tone dripping with implication.

"Fine," you huffed. "What do you want?"

A triumphant hum escaped him as he straightened up, retrieving a long rope from his hip and tossing it into your lap. "Tie your hands together," he commanded.

You hesitated, eyeing the rope and then him with uncertainty. His tone shifted, imbued with a hint of authority as he spoke again. "The rope goes around your wrists or around your neck. Either way, you don't want me to be the one to do it."

With deft fingers, you hastily wound the rope around your wrists, striving to fashion a knot that would hold without chafing your skin too severely. He bent down, giving the tether a firm tug to test its security before nodding in approval. Seizing the other end lying in the dirt, he yanked it harshly, nearly causing you to stumble forward onto the unforgiving ground.

"Get up," he commanded, his tone brooking no argument.

You complied, awkwardly pushing yourself to your feet without the use of your bound hands. There was a pregnant pause as you gazed at him expectantly, awaiting further instruction. However, he simply tugged on the rope, turning to lead you out of the dilapidated building and back into the sprawling wasteland.

You followed him into the desert expanse, both of you shrouded in silence save for your intermittent attempts to coax answers from him. Questions about where he was taking you, what he planned to do with you, hung in the air, but he offered no response. Instead, he whistled a tune, leaving your inquiries to dissipate into the wind.

As frustration reached its boiling point, you dug your heels into the sand, exerting force against your restraints as the rope cut into your skin. A hidden thrill coursed through you as you witnessed his hulking frame falter against the resistance, a fleeting moment of satisfaction before he regained his footing. His narrowed gaze met yours from beneath the shadow of his hat.

"I'm cooperating," you asserted, your voice strained. "You can—should at least tell me where we are going. Why you're doing this to me."

A heavy sigh escaped him, his shoulders slumping as he gazed skyward before meeting your eyes once more. "You're sure dumb for a pretty thing," he muttered, retrieving a flask from the recesses of his torn duster and taking a long swig. "I guess that's how they like to keep you down there."

As he turned to face you fully, his eyes rolled at your bewilderment before he elaborated. "Not much up here untouched nowadays, so when you see a little rabbit wandering the lands fresh from her cage, a smart man doesn't think twice before he acts."

Anger surged through you at his mocking words. Barely escaping your 'cage' with your life, barely comprehending the aftermath of the bombs, and now captive again—this time by a man, no, a monster, likely more sinister than those who had ensnared you initially.

"You already said you're not going to kill me, so you're going to fuck me or sell me," you asserted, mustering more confidence than you truly felt, chin lifted defiantly as he scrutinized you, tucking his flask away.

"Now you're catching on," he replied cryptically, offering no further explanation as he tugged at the rope and resumed walking. Your mind whirled with apprehension at his ominous response. Which fate awaited you? Both? The thought churned your stomach, imagining the touch of his weathered, calloused hands, pondering the atrocities he may have committed before and the ones he might be willing to commit now. You resolved not to make it easy for him, determined to fight tooth and nail if necessary.

"I can hear you thinking from over here, vaultie," he called back. "I ain't gonna fuck you," he added with a smirk, glancing briefly over his shoulder at you before continuing. "Ain't my type."

You scoffed, your brows furrowed in disbelief at his audacity. Doubt crept in, questioning if someone like him truly had preferences, more inclined to prey on anything within reach rather than adhere to any type. He resembled a monster more than a man, and you suspected his instincts remained consistent regardless of his words. Out here, where the population had dwindled to ashen, skeletal remnants of unfortunate souls caught in the blast, it seemed unlikely anyone could afford to be picky.

"What happened to you?" you demanded, your voice tinged with genuine curiosity.

He visibly stiffened at your question, briefly halting his movements before resuming with a dismissive gesture. He heard you, yet chose not to respond.

"I said, what happened to—"

"I heard you," he snapped, cutting you off. "Doesn't mean I owe you an answer."

You huffed, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "I'm just trying to understand what's going on! Yesterday, I was in my kitchen baking a key lime pie and dancing to the radio, and then—"

"Miss your cage, vaultie?" he interjected, a cruel chuckle escaping his lips. "If you miss it so much, why are you out here?"

Straining against your restraints, you heard him sigh in annoyance as he came to a halt. Turning to face you, irritation etched on his ghoulish features, he regarded you with a jutted hip and clenched gloved fingers tightening around the rope. "I'm not talking about the vault," you said earnestly. "I was in my home yesterday, just a normal day. Then the sirens blared, so loud I couldn't think. My neighbour, she came to my door, told me we had to leave, find safety. I didn't want to go without Glenn, but everyone was running, scared. I was too."

"When we reached the vault, it was chaos," you continued, his attention now fully captured, eyes glazed. "So many people, struggling to get in. But we made it, and... my neighbour, Patti—she's my friend. She had just given birth to her first child, a beautiful baby boy." You swallowed hard, suppressing the bile that threatened to rise in your throat. "They were supposed to let us in, we were pre-selected. But when we arrived, they turned Patti away. Shot her husband when he fought back," you recounted, the horror of the memory still fresh. "Then chaos erupted. The first nuke fell, and I was pushed through to the vault door. I lost Patti."

He regarded you with a sombre understanding, silently urging you to continue.

"When I entered, it wasn't like the commercials," you spat bitterly, recalling the false promises of safety. He cleared his throat. "That actor, going on about how great the vaults were—'a vast and wonderful place,'" you mocked with disdain. "Mine wasn't like that. It was... They did unspeakable things to us, to unborn children, and there was no recourse. It wasn't right. I knew what they wanted, deep down, but my head told me not to be so naïve. Vault-Tec was supposed to be saving us."

Tears welled in your eyes as the memories flooded back, as vivid as if they had happened yesterday, because to you they did. "They threw us into pods, froze us until they needed us. Took us out for testing and... I was the last one. Everyone else had... died, from the testing," you choked out, the pain of loss still raw. "I fought to survive, because I couldn't let what happened to those women and their babies happen to me or mine."

He listened intently, his eyes widening as he took in your story. His gaze flicked to the small swell of your stomach below your tied wrists, realization dawning.

"So I need to know," you implored, your voice trembling with fear. "Is what happened to you also what happened to Patti and her baby? Will it happen to mine?"

He studied you, and you felt yourself shrink under his penetrating gaze. You hadn't intended to divulge so much, to reveal your condition that you had desperately tried to conceal until it could no longer be hidden, to relive the trauma that still haunted you, though in reality centuries had passed since its occurrence. Yet, you needed answers. You needed to know what lay ahead in this desolate wasteland, and if you possessed the strength to face it.

"Yes," he answered quietly, his voice laden with a heavy solemnity. "It will, in time."

Fresh tears traced their path down your cheeks, and you nodded in understanding, raising your bound hands to wipe at your wet nose. "Okay," you whispered, then smiled sadly in resignation as you rubbed your wrists gently over your stomach. "At least up here, we had a little freedom for a time."

You felt the rope that he had been keeping such a tight hold on slacken before being dropped to the ground. Stepping towards you, he gingerly took your wrists and began working on the knot, untying it with ease before meeting your gaze from beneath his lashes. "You just gained a little more."

"You're letting me go?" you asked, doubtful.

"I'm letting you choose," he corrected, his voice carrying a peculiar weight as he rubbed the tender, burned skin of your wrist where the rope had left its mark. His thick thumb felt rough against your flesh as it traced over you in a gentle, swiping motion. "There are things worse than me out here, sweetheart. Are you going to take your chances?"

His words hung heavy in the air, and you met his gaze defiantly. "I don't need your pity."

"Good, because I ain't giving you none," he replied, his tone firm.

You held his gaze, neither of you willing to be the first to look away. Moments ago, he had been intent on taking you to an undisclosed location to sell you for whatever passed as currency in this wasteland, but now he presented you with a choice—a grim ultimatum. Stay with him or fend for yourself in the harsh wastelands. Neither option was ideal, but you hadn't lasted a single day on your own before being apprehended by him. Perhaps it was better to stick with the devil you knew, especially if there truly were worse threats out there as he claimed.

"I'm going to get bigger, you know. I'll slow you down," you warned him. "And I can't fight."

He chuckled softly, shaking his head as he gathered the discarded rope and secured it at his hip. "I've seen you shoot, but I've yet to see you fight. I think a few vault security guards could probably vouch for you, though," he teased, a hint of admiration in his voice. "You can't stay with me forever, nor would you want to. I'll take you to a safe haven for women in your condition. It's a few months' journey north from here. Until then, try to keep up."

You pondered his words, feeling a sense of relief at the prospect of a safe haven and the promise of being escorted there, despite the long journey. "Why the change of heart? What's in this for you?" you asked, curious about his sudden shift in demeanour.

His expression tightened, his gaze drifting to the small swell of your stomach that you now cradled protectively. "Righting some wrongs from a previous life," he answered solemnly, not waiting for your response before turning and beginning to walk away. He paused momentarily, waiting for you to follow.

"I don't know your name. What do I call you?" you called out after him.

He pondered for a moment, gazing out into the vast desert before turning back to you, tipping his hat in acknowledgment.

"Ghoul, for now."

This is such a delicious series, kinda scary and uncomfortable at times (I think it's just because Homelander is scary and uncomfortable at times), but I still keep wanting more. I want to see how far Homelander goes, how far off the deep end reader goes, etc. etc.

I can't wait to see more!

Take Care Author! <3

Vicarious (Homelander x Female!Reader) pt.3

a/n: "a cigarette pressed between her lips, but i'm staring at her tits, it's the wrong way" - Homelander, probably

Warnings: Masturbation, Explicit Language, General Creepy Behavior, Alcohol Usage, Plus Sized Reader, out-of-date song references.

Summary: Sunday off-work is the perfect time to relax. Unfortunately, your mentor is too interested in shortening that time as much as possible.

Pt.1 Pt.2

Your Instagram account is private, but the flimsy security system paled in comparison to Vaught's cyber team.

 Homelander has put in a special request. Actually carried himself to the lower levels of the Tower, asking one of the insignificant workers for a personal favor. Which they were oh-so-honored to fulfill. He's the Symbol of Peace, a fact everyone, besides you, seemed to understand. And as such, here he sits, spread out like a King on his silken sheets, one hand languidly stroking his length through his briefs, while the other scrolls away on your profile. He's aware of the questioning, that awaits him in the morning. Stillwell knew, he never actually used a phone, didn't need to. But that's a problem for the tomorrow version of himself. There isn't much she can do to stop him, either way. He'll get a slap on the wrist,  perhaps even an exasperated sigh, and he's been dealing with those his whole career. 

You must've had this account for a very long time, because the sheer amount of pictures is staggering. When he first flickered through the entirety of this priceless library, it felt like he hit the jackpot. Photos upon photos of different moments from your life stared back at him, at the shameless display of his interest (which he won't call want, because if he wants something, he gets it, and you're clearly not here). Starting from the very bottom, he began to scroll up, quickly passing at least a dozen pictures of you from your high school years. 

You've always been a little chubster, he laughs quietly to himself, bringing the phone closer to his face. Lights dance across his features, as he watches a short video you've uploaded years ago. It's blurry, the quality is worse than shit, but he can recognize your face through the haze of pixels. A nervous little thing, fidgeting with the hem of your color coded costume. It's some sort of student play, it reeks of amateurism. You're standing by the heavy curtain, knee-high socks digging into the meat of your legs in a way, that is tantalizing even through the screen. Biting your lip, you bounce on your legs, trying to rid yourself of the anxious energy, a habit he's noticed a couple of times now.

And oh, there it is. He recognizes the way you shake your hands, some sort of compulsion moving your limbs, consequently, making your curves jiggle under the costume. And then, you finally notice the camera pointed at you, your friend laughs behind the screen, and for some reason Homelander finds the sound aggravating. But your eyes start to shine, as your lips pull back into a bright, if a bit wavering smile, and you lift up your middle finger. His other hand presses harder against his steadily hardening length. 

Another couple of pictures fly past his eyes. You're showing your hands, dirty with splotches of colorful paint to the camera, and there's that sparkle in your eye again. You're decorating your graduation cap. There's glitter everywhere, in your hair, on your nose, on the tops of your breasts peaking from under a washed out sweatshirt. With a groan emanating from deep within his chest, Homelander's hand sneaks under the waistband of his briefs. 

Really, this whole ordeal started as a way to gather some intel. Genuinely.

 He did not expect to be in this situation, because honestly, what the fuck? The last time he's seen you in person, you were such an interesting enigma, he had to know more, had to figure out how the essence of you worked. Which version of you was the real one? The tired one, who cared for nothing save for her neighbourhood? Or the version, who held his gaze with a straight back? How did you disappear into yourself so quickly, were you putting on a mask, or showing your true colors? 

Who was your favorite Superhero? He was convinced it had to be him, that's why you've been acting so strange around him, a pathetic attempt at fighting off your crush. All in favor of professionalism. 

He huffs a staggering breath, fingers encircling his growing hard-on with light pressure. There's a video of you, again, quite recent at that. You're sitting on the floor, an unfamiliar place, he notes, remembering the look of your living room. Legs splayed out, covered by a flowy skirt, and as his grip tightens, Homelander wonders if you're wearing those same, washed out panties he saw on you the first time you've met. Leaning heavily on the front of an old couch, your entire body overflows with relaxed, leisure energy.

Your friend's hand appears from the edge of the screen, passing you a small box covered in present paper.

- Oh God, what's this? - you ask, your voice slightly distorted by the awful quality of the video.

- Something to hump in the night - your friend answers with a snort of laughter.

You regard them with a skeptically raised eyebrow, but tear into the paper, strips of it falling onto your lap. Then, you open the box, and Homelander groans, his hips lifting ever so slightly from the sheets. Your curious smile fades away into a thoroughly unimpressed expression. Reaching into the box, you lift a small plushie, presenting it to the camera, as your friend shakes with laughter.

- Okay, fuck you - you burst out laughing, the sound rich and so incredibly warm.

There it is, his cartoon face stares back at him, as you squeeze the plushie between your fingers. Fuck. His hand speeds up, and he all but yanks his briefs down, freeing himself and immediately going back to work. 

He zeroes in on the glowing blush, blooming on your face, noting a bottle of red wine right next to you on the floor. It's probably sickly sweet, and cheap. Perfect for you. Perhaps, you're pushed by the alcohol flowing through your veins, but Homelander doesn't believe it. He knows you imagine it's truly him, your favorite superhero, as you giggle and press your soft lips to the embroidered face of the plushie, giving it a loud kiss. 

He can almost imagine the moisture of your tongue on his cheek, the taste of wine mingling with that incessant jasmine perfume, you carry around on your skin. A tease, that's what you are, flaunting yourself in front of him in all your softness, all your glory.

- Fuck... - he grits through his teeth, searing the image into his memory, his other hand squeezing him harder - Shit.

Another picture seems to be from that same night. You're noticeably more disheveled, hair sticking out in odd places, your shirt falling off the shoulder. You're standing under the kitchen light, it shines behind your head like an angel's halo. Arms folded, you gaze tenderly at the gifted plushie, holding it close to your chest as one would a newborn baby, your lips pulled back into a drunken, but gentle smile. 

That, for some unknown reason (or known, Homelander is aware of his vices), makes him tumble over the edge, with a drawn out, guttural groan. His movements stutter, hips jerking upwards into his hand, as he feels his release coat his fingers. For a moment, it's completely quiet inside his penthouse, his chest rising and falling from the exertion. His phone clicks shut, and he throws it onto the pillow with a soft thud, eyes closing for just a second longer, savoring the images flashing behind his eyelids. 

Not enough, after a while he sighs to himself frustrated, wiping his hand on the silk sheets, his dissatisfaction leading him to stand up from the bed, and stalk towards one of the gigantic windows overlooking the city at night. With slow, lazy movements, he tucks himself back into his briefs, closing the zipper of his costume, hand lingering in the general area, should he decide to change his mind. 

The night is growing darker and darker by the moment, but it makes no difference for his unnatural gaze, as he focuses his attention on the street below. There, right at the entrance to the Vaught Tower, he can see the top of your head, standing on the sidewalk, tapping your foot to the music coming from the headphones placed over your ears. Homelander observes as a car pulls up, a shiny Uber sign catching his attention. 

Why the hell would you use such pedestrian ways of commuting is beyond him, especially since Vaught's personal drivers were available to you, should you truly need to go somewhere important. Or, you could ask him to fly you, so he can wrap his arms around you, and fuck you mid-air. Now, that's an interesting image. Interesting enough for his hand to twitch at his side, reaching to his belt as if it's working on autopilot. Before he can get too carried away, however, he composes himself with a hard breath sucked through his teeth. 

Curiosity killed the cat, but he's invincible, so what's the harm in indulging himself a little more?

The window to his room opens all the way inside, cool air wafting around his form, as he steps closer to the edge, his cape billowing behind him. And then, he's off. The force of his body lifting into the sky chips the floor of his penthouse, dust falling into the streets below. 

***

One day, every two weeks. That's all the free time you get, for the next six months. 

Coordinating your attendance at a party with the rest of your friends, while on such a tight schedule, bordered on impossible. But somehow, miraculously, you all managed to find that one, elusive Sunday. And two weeks after signing the contract as well. From the moment you've woken up in the morning, you've been filled to the brim with excited energy. While you've begged your friend not to go too overboard on the celebrations, you knew deep down, that people needed some excuse to unwind. And, as such, your joining with Vaught offered such an excuse on a silver platter. 

The Uber takes you through the city, lights flashing past the windows, as you fidget with the hem of your oversized t-shirt. 

God above, you've missed comfortable clothing with a burning passion. After being sucked into Fireball's hero costume for almost two weeks now, the moment you slipped on your cotton biker shorts felt borderline orgasmic. You tried to advocate for some safety shorts, under that stiff monstrosity of a skirt, the costume department provided you with, after the skin on the inside of your thighs tore nearly all the way to the bone from constant chafing. All you got in response, was a bottle of baby powder with Queen Meave's face on it, which felt more like a slap to the cheek, but you digress. 

You'll ask again after tonight. Stillwell might be more receptive to your ideas, now that you've proven yourself to be a model employee. 

The car moves through your neighborhood, your eyes gliding over familiar buildings with a sense of growing melancholy. You decide to push this feeling all the way down, as far as it can go. Tonight's not made for this, you'll allow yourself the luxury of sadness tomorrow, while fighting off the inevitable hangover.

Right now, you can already hear the music, bumping through speakers which saw better days. You can already see flickering lights inside your friend's house, silhouettes of various people moving behind flimsy curtains. You can already taste the horrendous drinks you're about to down. You've missed this. You've been out of here for only two weeks, and in that short time, all you wanted to do, was get back to the familiarity of your previous, non-famous life. The freedom of being yourself, and not this corporate puppet Vaught created.

The Uber pulls up, you pay, and your foot doesn't even have the chance to fully step on the sidewalk, when your friend drags you out of the car. Their smell, their warmth engulfing you entirely, wiping away any remaining worries. They announce your arrival to the crowd of people, more or less familiar to you, and soon, like a blunt at a function, you're being passed around the room. Smiling faces and words of congratulations overwhelm you in the best way possible. Someone pats your head, someone shakes your hand, someone claps you on the back. Someone pushes a drink into your palm, someone else kisses your cheek. 

And before you can even notice, the first notes of Jump Around by House of Pain start playing, and your friend tugs you by the elbow towards the living room, where the center of the party takes place. Bodies swaying, colognes, perfumes, sweat, it all mixes together in an intoxicating wave, and at that very moment Fireball is thrown out the window, locked out of this heaven. In her place, Smirnoff arises, victorious for tonight, and you welcome yourself back with open arms. 

Alcohol swishes around in your veins, a peculiar mixture of lemonade, Sprite and four different types of liquors. Your head is buzzing with the distorted sounds of bass, shaking the glass panes of the windows, your heart beating to the changing tune of another song. And another. And one more. Your hairdo is long forgotten, strands sticking to your sweaty forehead, to the back of your neck. Your voice is almost completely gone, from screaming over the surrounding sounds, and you're certain you won't be able to talk tomorrow.

 But that doesn't matter. Nothing matters, not here, not right now. 

At California Love you find out a group of your college girlfriends qualified for a Vaught sponsored scholarship program. Their hands glide over your waist, as they scream the news at you over 2Pac's voice, and you throw your head back and laugh. Simply laugh. Relief floods you. A feeling you were not expecting, because they're honoring the contract, despite everything you've always known about the company. So it's all worth it.

During Hey Ya!, your neighbor tells you they've managed to score a job at the Tower. The news is interrupted a couple of times, so you all can clap to the music. At this point your muscles are starting to burn from the constant jumping, but that doesn't stop you from shaking your behind in celebration, just like OutKast wanted. 

When No Diggity comes around, your friend invites you to their wedding, requesting specifically for you to come in your Superhero getup. Not really as an appreciation of Fireball's character, they just think it would be funny, and for them, you might actually consider it. They show you the ring, as you both grind against each other, make a pause in said grinding to take a burning shot of Fireball (yes, they thought it would be hilarious), and get back to grinding. 

You're doing good, everyone is doing good, and if selling your soul is all it takes to keep those smiles on your friend's faces, then the price seems comically small in comparison. And yet, something tugs at  the back of your mind, some hidden, biting feeling, wrenching itself under your skin.

By the time No Role Modelz comes up, your head feels so heavy, so filled to the brim with emotions, that you feel like the splintered floor inside your friend's living room will swallow you whole. Suddenly, it's all too much, and far too quickly, and you push past the crowds of oh-so-grateful people, until you all but throw yourself out the front door, half of your drink spilling onto the wooden porch. 

Such a waste.

Smirnoff, oh, Smirnoff, what have you done to yourself, you thins, stumbling through the grass, until your shoes find the sidewalk. Until your ass hits the concrete, and you lean heavily forward, bracing your hands on your knees, hiding your face in your arms. Your stomach feels much too tight for comfort, its contents swirling like a tornado. The music still follows you, the sounds of the party now muted, but still so tangible. Your stomach churns, your eyes start to burn under the mascara.

You won't cry. You can't cry. 

This is what you wanted, those were your terms, you don't get to swallow your own words. Especially since Vaught, apparently, is honoring their end of the deal. And if you were roped into it by an indirect blackmail... Then, so what? Your friend would never be able to afford a wedding, and now they have a date. They're looking at dresses in actual salons, not charity shops. Missus Johnson's kid's school got enough funding, that it's finally getting a whole renovation. Even the drama departament will get some money. You can never cry because of that. 

You don't even know what you're drinking, but you down the rest of it in one go, liquid burning it's way through your insides, until it reaches the already restless stomach. Fireball will surely pay for Smirnoff's sins tomorrow, but fuck that fake bitch, you want to feel alive. 

The song changes again, and you wait until the screams of delight subside inside the house, so you can recognize what's playing. Berkeley's On Fire. It makes you huff a laugh, as you hear a myriad of out of tune voices, yelling at the top of their lungs. You should go back, join them, enjoy this night to the fullest. But your head sways, and your limbs feel like your bones are made out of lead, so you stay in your place, tapping your foot to the distant sounds of the party. It's hard to focus on anything for longer than a minute, and, fearing an upcoming wave of anxiety, you reach into your pocket, pulling out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. 

"Put your pom-poms down, you didn't win shit" 

Oh, ha ha, hilarious.

You light one up with practiced ease, inhaling enough smoke to make your lungs burn, make your eyes line with tears, that you simply refuse to shed. Breathing out a cloud of fumes, you relish in the way they curl around your head, the smell both irritating your senses, and calming them. 

- You know these will kill you, right?

Your head snaps up, and as your eyes adjust against the darkness of the night, your breath catches in your throat. Admittedly, before your tipsy brain catches up, the view is quite spectacular. Surrounded by his American flag cape, Homelander descends from the night sky, his movements unnaturally graceful. His feet touch down onto the concrete in front of you, the street lamp illuminating his imposing figure, like a Patron Saint of The American Dream. He's almost beautiful like that, almost enough to fool you. But suddenly the realization of what exactly you're looking at, hits your like a train, and every muscle in your body tenses up, as you stand up quickly, taking a few stabilizing steps. Homelander's face blurs before your very eyes.

Perhaps those last two shots were a mistake. 

- What the fuck are you doing here? - your words come out with a slur, but your voice remains strong, demanding - Are you stalking me?

The illusion is gone with a blink of an eye, and you watch, as his face twists, in what you think is supposed to be an expression of nonchalance. He's really, truly, not as good of a liar as he thinks he is. 

- What? - he scoffs, sells it harder by looking at you like you're insane - No, no way. I have better things to do than stalk little girls like you.

He did not just call you little girl after repeatedly staring at your boobs, like they were ornaments on a Christmas tree. Your irritation flares up, and with a frown you take a quick, steadying drag from your cigarette. Your head sways to the side before you can stop yourself, as nicotine dances with alcohol within your system, his eyes follow the movement with light amusement.

- I was just on my patrol, and saw you sitting here alone - he continues, taking one step closer - Can't a hero check on his favorite Sidekick?

You throw him a withering look, one he brushes off with a (fake) charming smile. 

- Whatever, I'm not dealing with all this tonight - you wave your hand in his general direction.

Still holding your cigarette like a lifeline, you squat down, only to plop your ass back on the sidewalk with a heavy sigh. Homelander watches you with a mixture of emotions swimming through his eyes, and you can't decide which one would be better. Disgust might've been the safest. If he felt appalled by you, perhaps he would just leave you alone, let you slump down on your own. Amusement offered more risks, because you suspected the man was constantly fighting off bouts of boredom (much like yourself, but you were not about to think too hard about it in your current state, or any state, ever). You didn't want to catch his interest, at least not more than you've already done. And then, there was something else, something you were not naive enough to ignore, but definitely too drunk to get scared by. 

- You shouldn't be sitting here alone - he comments, taking another step forward - Someone might take advantage of a pretty girl like you, in such a vulnerable state at that. 

- Someone other than you, you mean? 

You're not sure what pushes your tongue to form the words in such a challenging, flippant manner, but it's too late now. Hanging your head low, you blow out another cloud of smoke, and his eyes follow the fumes, as they curl around your mouth. 

He's never considered smoking to be remotely attractive, but as he stands now, there's something alluring in your rebellious gesture. Usually, he wouldn't tolerate any of this, he's had people removed for far less. And yet, it's been such a long time, since he felt any sliver of entertainment, especially now, after his relationship with Meave ended. 

There is a groan coming out of your lips, and he watches as your body tips, back splaying on the sidewalk. It's instinctual, the way his tongue slips out to wet his lips, at the sight of your soft body molding itself into a laying position. This, borderline offensively, large T-shirt, spills around you, the ghost of your curves peaking at him through the thin cotton material. The hem rides up your plush thighs, exposing those ridiculous biker shorts below, as they dig ever so slightly into your skin. He can imagine the red lines, that would run across your flesh, where the stitches make their mark. He'd like to feel those ridges, map them out with his fingers, his tongue. 

He blinks, frowns, pushing those thoughts down, so he can replay them in the privacy of some unfortunate skyscraper. 

- Why aren't you at the party? - he asks finally, even though he knows the answer. 

He's been watching from the very begining, hidden from a regular human's sight, surrounded by darkness like it belonged to him. Rubbed a quick one to the sight of you dancing, your smile so bright, it almost blinded him. 

You're silent for a little while, eyes closed, as you soak in the warmth from the sidewalk, seeping into your back. The cigarette in your hand is burning, seemingly forgotten, ash gathering at the end, before it breaks off, and falls unceremoniously. 

- I needed some fresh air - not entirely a lie, but not the whole truth either.

Your voice is so quiet, with this tired edge he's noticed before. Like you're carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. He should feel insulted, really. Here he is, slaving away for the same company as you, saving insignificant lives, securing the budget. And what are you doing, exactly? Get wasted the first chance you can, and piss him off with this holier-than-thou bullshit. Acting like you're such a martyr, while getting a check that would make half this neighbourhood shit their pants. The absolute audacity of you, pretending to be tired, to be so bored, when he's standing right here. Your favorite hero.

Quietly, he bristles, blinking a couple of times, to rid himself of this incessant, stinging sensation in the corner of his eyes. When was the last time he's felt this... Aggravated? 

- I think I'm gonna head back to the Tower - you muse after a moment, the way your chest rises and falls capturing his gaze immediately - I've had enough for tonight. 

His eyebrows scrunch at the sudden note of melancholy entering your voice, but he swallows his intrigue, taking on a more nonchalant persona. 

- I could fly you back.

Silence. Your eyes shoot open, as you look at him with an unreadable expression, and he rolls his shoulders under your scrutiny. This is definitely one of the things he hates about you the most. This keen sense of observation. Suddenly, he feels the padding inside his suit a tiny bit more on his skin.

- What? - he asks, trying to sound casual, but you could pick up on the tension in his voice immediately.

- You're really giving me some mixed signals - you muse, the corner of your mouth twitching in a way that is more enchanting, than he would ever anticipate. 

While your words come out quite evenly, the swaying instability of your body, as you try to stand, betrays just how drunk you really are. For what it's worth, Homelander finds it endearing. The way you have to take a couple steps to steady yourself, refusing with a burning passion to even consider holding onto him for support. He wants to scoff so badly, at this pathetic display of independence. Shouldn't you want to put your hands all over your favorite Superhero? 

He opts for staying quiet, however, betting everything on your pliability. 

- I'm giving you mixed signals? - he huffs, bordering on offended, recounting all of your previous interactions.

- Well, yes - you take a step closer, back as straight as it can go, and his nose is assaulted by the smell of jasmine flowers and cigarettes - Since I've met you, you've been trying to charm me, threaten me, all the while harassing me like we're in fucking high school.

Homelander shrugs, waving his hand in your direction, as if trying to swat an annoying fly. And in many ways, that's how he sees you. An annoying, infuriating fly, with a nice pair of tits that you just refuse to share with him. And that just won't fly (he's proud of that joke). 

- Oh don't be so dramatic - he laughs, the sound forced through his teeth - Everyone knows you have to hassle the newbie a bit...

The sound of your laughter is strange to his ears, despite hearing it many times before, albeit, never directly. A cackling, casual sort of chuckle, which shakes your entire being, and brings something strange swirling in his gut. He would never describe this something as a feeling, because this is not some teenage romance drama. But he would like to hear you laugh again, if only to satiate his hunger for any sort of reaction. The fact it's a positive reaction has nothing to do with this, by the way. 

- That's the weirdest fucking hazing, I've ever experienced, then - you muse, a ghost of a smile still present on your lips, as you close the distance between yourself and Homelander, in a couple more steps, than what's necesary - Would you really fly me back to the Tower?

- Of course, Princess - he flicks your chin with his finger, revelling in the way your head bounces back - Consider it an apology, for makin you uncomfortable before. 

For now, you're willing to overlook the nickname, which surely could be considered a term of endearment, if any other person would use it. You mull over his words, looking at him for a moment longer, your eyes flickering all over his features. Even despite the overwhelming darkness surrounding the two of you, his pupils are so small, for a moment all you can see is the ever-consuming blue. He's handsome, of course he is. A bit too America's Sweetheart for you, but objectively, you were staring at a very attractive man. Who, by all intents and purposes, looks sincere in his offer. 

So you shrug.

- Alright - his smirk widens into a smile, those sharp canines making an appearance - So, how do we do this...? 

You look between him and yourself, and Homelander bites his lip, putting his hands on his hips, as he eyes you for a second longer.

- Put your arms around my neck - his voice is quieter, much lower as well, something which, in hindsight, you shouldn't have overlooked.

You do as he asks, stepping even closer, and wrapping your arms around his neck, feeling more than a bit awkward as you do. It's quiet for a second too long, his chest exapands, brushing against yours. But just as you're about to say something, Homelander's hands grab you tightly around your waist, bringing your bodies flush together. 

And then, the rush of air forces your eyes closed, this unfamiliar feeling of your feet suddenly being very much not on the ground, making your heart drop to the very bottom of your shoes.

- Fuck! - you curse loudly.

Instinctually, your legs wrap aound his midsection, as your calves dig themselves into his sides. You can't look. Refuse to, and with an unbecoming sound, you hide your face in the space between his collarbones, the cologne he seems to constantly wear pacifying your nerves for just a fraction. 

And. He. Fucking. Loves. It. 

The lightness of air surrounds him, making his senses even more acute. Your weight, your soft, pliable body, pressed so tightly to him, he thinks he might get absorbed completely. It's so much better, than what he has imagined. Your fingers grab onto the back of his collar, nails biting into the fabric, so close to digging themselves into his skin. Your chest rises in short, panicked breaths, and he feels every single one of them, wants to crawl into your chest and suck the air straight out of your lungs. The heat of your body alone makes his head spin with dark arousal. And your legs are already in position too. It would so childishly easy, to just take you here, under the night sky. 

- Are we there yet? - your voice borders on a pathetic whine, and the sound runs straight to his nether regions, the pants of his suit tightening on command.

Any building would do, he thinks, as he cuts through air over New York. He could land right there, on the rooftop of this sandwich shop you run off to, every time there's a lunch break. And fuck you, until you'd never want to eat in this disgusting, dirty, cockroach-infested place ever again. Or here, just outside the Vaught Tower, where you oh-so-rudely refused to ask him for help, only to cram your delicious body into an Uber. He'll have to punish you for this oversight.

- We're so close - he smirks into your hair, taking a whiff of your scent as he goes. 

Or, he could follow his original plan, and screw you on every flat surface inside his penthouse. 

The window is still wide open, and he slows down his flight, as he aims for the entrance. His arms tighten around you ever so slightly. There wouldn't be much he could do with you, if you knocked your head on the glass pane, and as if responding to his touch, your own grip becomes even more suffocating. If he was a regular human, he's sure, you'd squeeze the life out of him. And then, amidst flying papers and the overpowering smell of his cologne, everything stops. 

Neither of you move. You're too shaken by the flight to detach yourself from him, and he abuses that fact for all it's worth. His lips pull back into a sharp, dangerous smile. Unknowingly, you've just let a Lion carry you right into his den. 

In the spirit of encouraging people to comment on fanfics while also making it easier to do so, I feel obliged to share a browser extension for ao3 that has quite literally revolutionized the comment game for me.

I present to you: the floating ao3 comment box!

From what I've seen, a big problem for many people is that once you reach the comments at the bottom of a fic, your memory of it miraculously disappears. Anything you wanted to say is stuck ten paragraphs ago, and you barely remember what you thought while reading. This fixes that!

I'll give a little explanation on the features and how it works, but if you want to skip all that, here's the link.

The extension is visible as a small blue box in the upper left corner.

(Side note: The green colouring is not from the extension, that's me.)

If you click on it, you open a comment box window at the bottom of your screen but not at the bottom of the fic. I opened my own fic for demonstrative purposes.

The website also gives explanations on how exactly it functions, but I'll summarize regardless.

insert selection -> if you highlight a sentence in the fic it will be added in italics to the comment box

add to comment box -> once you're done writing your comment, you click this button and the entire thing will automatically copied to the ao3 comment box

delete -> self explanatory

on mulitchapter fics, you will be given the option to either add the comment to just the current chapter or the entire fic

The best part? You can simply close the window the same way you opened it and your progress will automatically be saved. So you can open it, comment on a paragraph, and then close it and keep reading without having the box in your face.

Comments are what keep writers going, and as both a writer and a reader, I think it's such an easy way of showing support and enthusiasm.

Loved this chapter, and the way you wrote May was so fitting for her character! I could vividly see her saying this to someone questioning Spiderman. Fantastic job, take care, author!!

Trust Me- Chapter 4

Masterlist

When Matt arrived at the address Frank had sent and noticed a rapid heartbeat, he was more than a little worried. Apparently that heartbeat came from a man who went by the name “Micro”. Micro was clearly not excited to be here. He sat on the far end of the room, surrounded by computers and Matt could hear his muffle breath, probably wearing some type of mask to hide his face.

“Let’s get started, yeah?” The man said, eyeing the way Frank was making himself at home, disassembling his handgun and beginning to clean it. “You’ve got a name for me?”

“Peter Parker, high schooler in Queens, friends with a girl named MJ.” Matt was prepared to continue when Micro began to speak.

“Found him. Peter Benjamin Parker. Race: White. Height: 5’10. Age:” he gave a low whistle “sixteen, on the younger end of sixteen. Family: Richard and Mary Parker, deceased. Was taken in by his Uncle Benjamin Parker and Aunt May Parker, Ben is also deceased.” The man muttered as he leaned into the computers to get a better look. “He lives with May now. She works twelve hour shifts in a hospital working as a nurse.” 

“What’s his school life look like?” Luke asked from where he was leaning on a wall.

“Umm, he’s smart. He goes to ‘Midtown School of Science and Technology’; which is a super expensive private school. He got in on scholarship after getting a 99 cumulative grade on the entry exams. Only one other kid got the scholarship, super competitive entry…at least for those who can’t afford to buy their way in.”

“His friend?” Jessica drawled.

The clicking of Micros keyboard continued, “There is no “MJ”. But, there is a Michelle Jones-Watson that goes to his school. African-American, 5’3, sixteen but turning seventeen later this year. Uhhhhh, her father was in the air-force, her entire dad side of the family has some history of being in the military. Mom is an immigrant from the Dominican Republic, no siblings. She is the other scholarship kid, and scored a 90." He turned in his chair to look at the vigilantes. 

“When does the kids' aunt get off of work?” Frank asked, whipping his hands that had been smeared black from his gun with a rag.

“7am, so nine-ish hours from now.” 

Frank leaned back, “Let’s all kill some time and meet up in Queens at 6:30. We’ll wait for his aunt to get into their apartment and then go have a chat.”

A loud choking noise came from Micro, “Let me suggest that someone other than you and Daredevil go be the ones to talk to her. Respectfully, it's not exactly… thrilling to have vigilantes and mass murders ambush someone at their home.” he said, staring hard at Frank. 

“If I’m not going I need you to give us something that’ll let me hear and see everything.” Micro opened his mouth to argue, “Either wire us up or I’m going in. I’m not leaving this alone.”

Micro’s chair squeaked quietly as he turned, apparently thinking it over, “I have a small camera with a mic that one of you can wear but I want it back.” he said, speaking with more strength than Matt expected him to be able to speak with. 

“You’ll get it back.” Frank swore.

“...Fine.”

-------------------

The Parkers lived in one of the several apartment buildings in Queens. The area was not a good one, Matt kept veering off course to stop crimes which caused him to show up last of the group. The vigilantes were unnervingly serious. There was no banter, Jessica wasn’t drinking, Luke's leg wouldn’t stop bouncing and Frank just kept loading and unloading his handgun. The steady click-click click-click click-click was starting to drive Matt insane but he was stopped from yelling when he heard a simple conversation begin.

“Peter! You’ve gotta leave or you’ll be late”, the sound of a body hitting a wall was clear, “Don’t break through the wall to leave though. It’s not that serious.”

“Ha ha ha, you’re hilarious. You should quit being a nurse and become a stand-up comedian, I’d support you.” 

“She’s home, he’s leaving.” Matt reported, catching the attention of his fellow vigilantes.

He heard the boy say goodbye before giving his aunt a short hug and barreling out the door. From there he focused on the woman. Her heartbeat was steady and her footsteps were heavy as if she were dragging herself around. “We should go in thirty minutes to give him some time to get out of range.”

They waited, every second feeling like an eon, before Luke stood up saying, “Time’s up. Let’s go.” The group had decided he and Jessica would go to speak to her as they were the least intimidating out of the four, thanks to Jessica’s low(ish) profile and Luke’s reputation as a beloved hero. Jessica had the camera attached to her jacket and Matt and Frank sat around the tablet connected to it, eagerly listening to the impending conversation.

The two slipped into the building and knocked on the apartment given by Micro. “Oh, so you’re who he was warning me about. Come on in.” was what they were greeted with when the door opened.

After sharing a look they walked in, “Warned you?” Jessica asked.

“Why don’t you explain yourself first, yeah? You were the ones who came to speak to me.” May spoke as if it was a genuine offer but the implication was clear that she wasn’t going to tell them shit until they said what she was looking for. 

They watched as the woman walked over to the kitchen table and sat down continuing to eat what looked like…Fruit Loops. They looked at each other again and after debating silently Luke said, “We wanted to talk about your nephew.”

She stared at them expectantly, “What about him?”

“He’s Spider-Man.”

For a long moment nobody spoke or moved, “God dammit. If this stupid thing froze, I’m going to give him hell.” Frank swore from where he and Matt sat on the roof across the road.

Before he could continue to threaten the life of Micro they heard, “What does that have to do with you?”

“Excuse me?” Luke and Jessica said unanimously.

“What does that have to do with you?” May asked again. When they didn’t respond she continued, setting down her spoon, “See, here’s what I think happened/is happening and feel free to tell me I’m wrong. But from where I’m sitting it looks like you found out -somehow- that he is Spider-Man. Then went out of your way to find who knows what information and then came here to tell me that he is Spider-Man, as if I don’t already know.”

“I’m going to go ahead and assume - for my sanity and your safety- that you did this out of concern. But now that you have told me, this is what’s going to happen: you are going to get rid of any and all information you have on Peter, me and anything else you have in relation to us; then you are going to leave us the hell alone.”

“You’re just going to let him keep going?” Luke asked judgmentally. “You’re okay with the messes he’s putting himself into?”

May sat back in her chair and crossed her arms, “Have you ever raised a toddler?” 

The vigilantes didn’t respond. 

“Or an elementary schooler or a middle schooler or a highschooler or really any child, ever? No. No, I didn't think so. So let me put this into perspective for you. I love Peter. I raised Peter.  Watched him grow into the person he is now. That person has abilities no one else has. That person has a heart bigger than he knows what to do with. That person will not look away when he knows there's something he can do.” 

She took a breath, “I don’t love it. In helping others he is putting himself in danger and everytime he comes back hurt a part of me dies inside, but this is who he is. He will put others before him and he is too strong for me to stop him. I literally couldn’t stop him if I tried. And believe me I tried.” she gave a soulless laugh. “But really, none of this is any of your fucking business. He is my kid. Mine. Not yours, not anyone else's. And my kid has been given an impossible situation and now he is managing as best as he can. And that is all I can ask of him.”

“But what-”

“I’m not done.” May said cutting off Jessica. “That’s all I can ask of him…you though. I can tell you to stay out of his way. You have no place in this conversation. You don’t like that he’s Spider-Man? You want him to stop? Too fucking bad. If he won’t stop when I ask him to, he sure as hell isn’t going to when you tell him to. And good fucking luck trying to force him to stop, he is stubborn and strong and smart like no other and he will just embarrass you, so step away now.”

Frank slumped against the wall they were sitting on, “I fucking knew it.”

“Oh congratulations, Frank. You were right, the sixteen year old isn’t going to stop throwing himself off buildings.” Matt mocked.

“Shut the hell up you-” 

May interrupted him from where they were watching the scene on the tablet, “Do you have anything else you want to say?”

“How do you sleep at night?” Jessica asked, looking at the woman who was so accepting of the fact that her nephew may die at any moment.

May gave a small smile, “I don’t.”

--------------

“What now?” Micro asked.

“I don’t know about you all but I’m going to keep an eye out for him and give him my number.” Frank said, pulling out a box full of bullets and magazines from under the table he was sitting at; he began to load the magazines ignoring the groan that came from Micro.

“Please stop leaving your weapons here.”

“No.” 

“Give him your number then what?” Luke prompted, sounding tired.

“Tell him to let me know if he needs anything.” 

“You really do only care about kids and dogs, huh?” Jessica asked.

“Yes. Listen I have some business I have to deal with in Queens, which means that the kid will also be there. I’ll give him a burner with all of our numbers. I’ll tell him to call me if he needs anything and that he should only call you guys if there’s an emergency. Is that fair?”

The group was in agreement and as Matt began to leave the building he heard Micro tell Frank, “Give him my number too. I completely understand what May was talking about, and I know you do too. He isn’t that much older than my kids and I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep knowing that I didn’t at least try.”

Holy shit